


lighting matches

by smallbeans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Sheriff Stilinski, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - High School, Artist Stiles Stilinski, Bullying, Caring Derek Hale, Child Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Good Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:49:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: Stiles accepted a long time ago that he is going to be nothing but a town delinquent who works for Deucalion and rides a skateboard. His real problem, is that his father is an abusive drunk who's only furthered Stiles' influence in believing he won't achieve anything outside of Beacon Hills. Enter Derek, a brooding senior who wears leather jackets like a character out of Grease, rides around in his crazy, out-of-place expensive car and who wants to help Stiles get out of the mess that has become his life.Trouble is, Stiles' father is the town sheriff, and Stiles refuses to believe anyone wants to help him.





	1. stay in the dark another day

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this at the beginning of the year, abandoned it half way through and has just picked it back up again because i was in some desperate need for whump!stiles. like all of my other works, this fic is filled with hurt and comfort. **warnings for graphic descriptions of abuse, underage drug use, depression, child neglect and other trigger warnings**
> 
> enjoy! <3

****When Stiles’ mother was alive, she told Stiles he could be anything he wanted to be, that he could be anything he dreamed of. She told him to not let anything in the world stand in his way, and when he told her he wanted to be an artist, she smiled and ran a hand through the unruly locks of his brown hair and said, "Yes, _moja miłość_ (my love), even an artist. My brave little boy, you can be anything."

His mother was born in Poland, but her father worked in the Army, which required them to move around a lot when she was a child. She told Stiles hundreds of stories when he was growing up about all the places where she lived, moving around from country to country, from school to school. She told Stiles about how they lost contact with her family after they moved out of Poland when she was seven, and at the time, she had no way of keeping contact with the friends she made as she moved around. She told him about the detachment and loneliness she felt from having no relationship attachments, but she also told him about the beauty of the world, the cultures and the people.

She told him lots of stories, and to Stiles, that’s all they ever were: just stories.

The day she died, she told him he had to get out of this town. She told him, as soon as he graduates from high school in years to come, that he had to promise to leave Beacon Hills, explore the world and see all the new things. She told him of life outside of Beacon Hills is as magical as all her stories told, she told him it’s her dream for him to find and reach his own. She told him to go to New York, to aspire his dreams of becoming an artist and to never, ever give up.

Stiles promised he would, and at the time, he truly believed he could keep it. And then, his father picked up more hours at the sheriff station, abandoning him at the fragile and vulnerable age of just nine.

Stiles learnt at a young age that promises are made to be broken, and he broke his most important one.

 

"Dude!" Scott shouts, bursting through the shop door. It swings wide and fast, banging into the wall behind it. "You’ll never guess what!"

"I guess that you don’t have the money to fix the door you just almost broke," Stiles replies, nodding towards the closing door behind him. The teen stands behind the counter, pricing the new vinyl stock that Isaac told him he needs to put out before closing time.

Scott rolls his eyes. "Guess again!"

Stiles pouts his lips as he leans forward, feigning thinking. "Your mother took pity on you having to walk everywhere so she finally bought your sad ass a bike?"

"Says the guy who rides around town on a thrift-shop skateboard."

Stiles’ eyes widen. "Do not insult Ruben."

"I can’t believe you’ve named your skateboard."

"People name cars, why can’t I name mine?"

"Because it’s a _skateboard_ ," Scott deadpans. "Forget it, I’m going to tell you my news anyway. You know the new centre opening up down town?"

"What, the one that’s replacing the Youth club that was basically just a hangout for druggies?"

"And by 'druggies', you mean _you_ ," Scott snarks.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Please, I don’t even _know_ what pot is."

Scott nods, unconvincingly, playing along with the lie. "Of course. You and you’re wacky grass!"

Stiles snorts.

"Anyway," Scott goes on, "they’re turning it into a new Youth centre and opening night is basically going to be a massive party. Wanna go?"

"Let me guess, is Allison going?"

Scott’s cheeks flush and Stiles can see the corners of his lips twitching in a sheepish, shy smile.

Him and Allison have been an ongoing project since the start of high school when she moved to Beacon Hills. It’s unusual for new people to move into the town, and for a place so small, everything and everybody. So fresh meat was big news when Allison Argent and her family moved to town. Scott was wooed by the raven-haired teenage girl with the big eyes and a loud laugh the moment she late walked through the classroom door.

But, dating Allison has proven to be no easy task, considering Scott is on the lowest level of popularity and Allison is soaring high at the top with Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore, the prime school queen and the biggest douche bag to poison the Earth.

Stiles rolls his eyes at his best friend, stamping the vinyl harder than he should. "You’re pathetic in love, Scotty-boy."

"Coming from the guy who has been crushing on Lydia Martin since Kindergarten!" Scott defends.

"Not anymore!" Stiles corrects hastily.

Everyone knows about his 'crush' on Lydia. That died long ago, but Stiles has convinced people it went on for longer. Stiles didn’t want people to know he stopped liking Lydia like that, simply for the fact that the affection he had for her was punched out by the affection for someone else - an attraction that was practically forbidden by everyone around him.

Scott rolls his eyes again. "Whatever, dude. You going to come or what?"

"I’ll have to check if I’m working," Stiles feigns, but when Scott’s eyes turn to big, sad puppy eyes, Stiles sighs over-dramatically. "Fine. I’ll come, but you have to promise not to ditch!"

"I won’t," Scott promises, but Stiles can’t find it in himself to believe it entirely.

 

A few hours later, Stiles scoops up his skateboard off the sidewalk as he rolls to a stop outside his house. The entire street is dark, the only light coming from the open-curtained windows from the rest of the houses. Stiles looks around mutedly before walking up the stretch of the driveway where his fathers Sheriff cruiser and his mothers old Jeep is parked.

Sliding off his headphones, he unlocks the front door and steps in silently, his beaten-up Converse trainers soundlessly stepping on the worn wooden floor. He closes the door gently behind him and from where he stands by the coat rack, he can see into the living room and his father on the couch, passed out with a beer bottle clasped loosely between his fingertips.

Stiles swallows thickly, sighing softly. He shouldn’t have expected any different, but he’s a sucker for wishful thinking, and he always has been. He had wished for his mother to get better, he had wished for Lydia to love him back, and everyday he wishes for his father to drain his beers and whiskeys down the sink instead of his throat and for him to come home sober, smiling like the father he used to be.

Turns out, wishful thinking is almost as dangerous as his father himself.

Stiles bypasses the kitchen, despite the cramps of hunger in his stomach. He can’t risk waking his father up by trying to make food, especially as it’s so late. He got out of work later than usual, staying behind to help Isaac finish putting out the new stock so the other teen could go home.

The stairs creek under his feet as he takes them two at a time, dashing like a scurrying mouse into his bedroom. He shuts the door with a quick but soft click behind him and finally, he can breathe.

It’s rather pathetic, really, as Stiles stands with his forehead resting against the cool wood of the door, eyes closed and breathing through his nose to stop the panic from overflowing like a blocked sink. If anybody could see him now, they’d laugh, but John is always worse on Fridays.

Stiles doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the end-of-the-week steam he has to let off, but John always hits harder on Fridays - unless he’s already passed out on the couch like he is now.

The first hit came barely a month after his mother died when he was nine. Handling a grieving, confused and ADHD-riddled son was probably harder than John had anticipated when he was mourning the death of his wife at the bottom of a bottle. Stiles doesn’t know if his father remembers striking that first hit, because even if he did, the next morning he acted as if it had never happened. He’d been confused about why Stiles had had a blossoming, purple bruise on his cheek.

Stiles had lied. He told his father he fell over, but the lie didn’t seem to do him any favours later on when his father drank himself senseless again, taking his frustration and rage out on his punching-bag of a son.

And that’s all Stiles has ever been to him since: his personal punching bag, an emotional pin ball. Stiles is his fathers emotional outlet, his physical relief, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

He pushes himself off the bedroom door a minute later, tossing his rucksack on the bed and picking up his sketchpad and pencils from the desk. He slides the window open, climbing through and goes up to the roof like he does most nights. He breathes in the fresh, cool night air. He can’t see much, but it’s enough to relax him. He sits, cross-legged above his bedroom window, his pad in his lap and chest finally released from the everlasting clamp that crushes it during the day. He pulls a small cassette player and a box out of his jean pocket. He slips the headphones from around his neck to over his head and onto his ears, jabbing the wide button on the player to start. _Eye of the Tiger_ by Survivor comes blasting on and he nods his head to the beat, opening the box he pulled out and placing a cigarette between his lips. He lights it, listening to the paper and tobacco crackle gently before nicotine and smoke flood his lungs. He exhales the white cloud into the night sky a moment later, closing his eyes.

Stiles doesn’t go inside until his fingers are blue from the winds chill.

 

When his mother died, she told him her precious baby blue Jeep was going to be his, that she wanted him to have that when he was old enough to drive and cherish it like she cherished it herself. His father told him when he was fifteen that he'd never let Stiles touch the inside of that Jeep, his words slurred with alcohol and rage bubbling like a teased lion. Stiles hadn't argued though, and despite being almost 17 and old enough to have a driving license, every morning he has to catch the bus to school.

His dad is already up and gone by the time he has to leave and run to the end of the road to catch the tin vehicle, to where he climbs on and sits in the seat next to Scott.

He listens for the 15 minute ride as Scott religiously gushes about his meet up with Allison the night before, or the texts they sent all night, and Stiles would do his best to mute his sighs and hide his eye rolls. He can't blame Scott, not really. Allison is beautiful, and kind, and funny and everything one wants and needs in a girl, but that didn't mean Stiles wants to hear about her 24/7 when Scott was incapable of _shutting up_.

Stiles is a moment away from slamming Scott's head against the window to make him be quiet for just a second when Cora, who sits in the seats in front next to Kira, turns around and snaps, "Will you  _shut up_  about Allison  _freaking_  Argent, McCall? You're giving the entire bus a damn headache!"

A chorus of laughter rings out, and Stiles pats Scott on the shoulder when the teen goes a cherry red in his cheeks, and then he promptly high-fives Cora through the gap between the seats because, honestly, the girl just saved his will to live.

As soon as the bus is parked, Scott is off and chasing Allison down at the other end of the parking lot, so Stiles walks to class with Cora and Kira. The pair are talking about the new _The Smiths_ album so Stiles just half-listens. His half-hearted attention is snatched when he sees the group by the doors.

Derek Hale stands slouched against his slick black car, leather jacket shining in the rising winter sun. Erica's blonde hair blows and shimmers as her head rests on his shoulder, laughing at something Isaac said. Boyd walks up, and Erica leaps into his arms with a squeal so loud Stiles can hear it.

He can never tell a soul about his feeling for Derek. Mostly because the middle Hale sibling despises him and any mention of feelings between them that aren't hostile is a suicidal move. Stiles doesn't know why the teen hates him, especially since Cora and Laura are close to Stiles as much as Scott is, but somehow Stiles had gotten on the middle Hale's bad side and hasn't been out of it since. It might not help that Derek hangs around with Jackson, who has been Stiles arch nemesis since they started Kindergarten together and Stiles revealed he thought Lydia was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

A pair of finger snap in front of his face suddenly and Stiles startles, retching away in surprise.

Cora and Kira are staring at him, waiting.

"What?"

Cora rolls her eyes. "We asked like five times if you were going to the party for the opening of the Youth centre on Friday."

"Oh," Stiles mumbles as they walk. "I don't know. If Isaac's going I might have to work the record shop."

"Damn," Cora sighs. "Do you think you'll still be able to get us some stuff for it?"

"'Stuff'?"

"You know what I mean."

Stiles does. By 'stuff', Cora means cigarettes and pot. It's become apparent amongst the Beacon Hills High School students that Stiles Stilinski is the one to go to for supplies as such, and Stiles is just grateful no one has ratted him out to his father yet - or he may just get a beating hard enough he doesn't wake up from it.

"I'm meeting Deuc tomorrow after my shift. I'll speak to him then about some extra," Stiles replies finally as they breeze through the double doors and enter one of the many overcrowded corridors.

"You're the man, Stiles," Cora grins, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I am the fucking man," Stiles snarks, ducking his head and laughing when Cora goes to clip him. "You missed."

"I won't next time, Stilinski," Cora warns. "You better watch your back in study hall."

"Why, incase you try to kiss my ass?"

Cora flips him off, her laughter ringing in the noisy hallway as her and Kira go to their lockers. Stiles makes way to his, pushing through the congregated swarms of freshman around his locker. He stuffed his afternoon books in to relieve the weight off his shoulders before he descends down the corridor to his first class.

He barely got three steps before something hard and forceful rammed into his shoulder. He stumbled and fell into the lockers with a loud crash, the bruise already beaten into his arm causing white hot pain to explode behind his eyes. He rights himself quickly, his arm tingling with harsh and sharp pins and needles of agony.

Jackson stands beside him, cocky grin menacing and smug.

"Watch where you're going, Stilinski," he snarls, animalistic and growling.

"Jog on, Whitte-whore," Stiles replies, righting his rucksack. The leftover bruises from his father on his ribs are aching more now, irritated by the second round of abuse.

Jackson's eyes grow comically wide and round on his sculptured face. The nickname isn't new. It's something Stiles has called Jackson for as long as he knew that 'whore' was an insult and that it fit almost perfectly into the guys last name.

Jackson's upper lip turns back, curling over his white teeth like an actual dog. His eyes are burning with rage, cheeks glowing cherry red as he snarls, "You little shit!"

Stiles is slammed back against the lockers, the padlocks digging painfully into the prominent knobs of his spine. Jackson has him by he collar, holding him up so his Converse barely skim the school corridor floor. Their faces are so close Stiles can smell the toothpaste in Jackson's breath and forces himself not to cringe.

"Get any closer and we're going to be kissing," Stiles teases.

If possible, Jackson's face gets redder. It's almost as red as the lacrosse uniform he wears like a crown.

"I swear it fucking God, I will—"

"You will what?" Stiles eggs him on. He wants to see Jackson snap, to see him grow a spine and do something other than threaten and shove. Stiles doesn't consider Jackson to be a bully, because all he does is cast empty threats and shove Stiles whenever he's in reaching distance. Jackson is more a coward than Stiles.

He sees a teacher coming out of class. The bell rang as Stiles was pushed the first time, so all four of them are now late for first period.

"Boys," the teacher's low voice bellows with warning. "What's going on?"

"Go on," Stiles whispers, Jackson's large hands still clenched tightly in the fabric of his old denim jacket. "I fucking dare you."

Jackson stares at him for a long moment. His eyes are hard but Stiles sees the fear, the hesitation. He knows Jackson won't do it - his scholarship will be on the line if he does anything.

Jackson's hands let go suddenly and Stiles drops to his feet. They're still close, so close Stiles can feel the heat from him. Jackson is much larger than Stiles, considering the jock is a mass of muscle and broad shoulders while Stiles is a bean pole of skinny limbs and bones. Jackson towers and shadows Stiles like most of the boys in their year.

"Nothing," Jackson replies to the teacher, finally taking a step back and creating some distance between them. "We're fine."

"Stilinski?"

Stiles forces himself to break the staring game he'd started with Jackson. He looks to the teacher and nods. "We're fine."

"Get to class then. You're late."

Stiles notices, with a brief glance, Derek and Boyd standing behind Jackson, watching with blank eyes. Once again, they'd done nothing.

Stiles rolls his eyes and pushes off the lockers that have left visible marks in his fragile and soft flesh. He scoops his bag off the floor where it'd fallen during the scuffle and makes his way to class.

He apologised to Mr Yukimira as he walks in, who gives him a dismissive nod in reply. He takes his seat at the back and shakes his head when Scott raises his eyebrows that clearly asks 'where have you been?'. Scott knows as much as the teachers do about Stiles' and Jackson’s history and the tension between them.

No one does anything though, because no one gives a shit.

At the end of the day, Cora finds Stiles sitting on one of the tables in the court yard, headphones on,feet on the bolted-down bench and his sketchbook in his lap. She plucks the cigarette from his lips and instantly puts in hers, grinning as she takes a drag.

Nonchalant, Stiles looks up from beneath his askew brown locks that hang limply on his forehead, pushes his headphones off and around his neck, and says, "You’re brother will kill you if he sees you doing that."

"No," Cora corrects, exhaling and passing it back. "He’ll kill _you_."

Stiles scoffs, placing the almost-burnt-out bud between his lips. "Most likely."

"What are you listening to?"

" _Satisfaction_ ," Stiles replies. "By The Rolling Stones."

"Nice," Cora moves and climbs up so she’s sitting next to him, her feet next to his on the bench. She looks down nosily at his sketchpad. "It’s good."

"It’s awful. I can’t get his eyes right," Stiles grumbles, slamming the book shut. He takes another drag of the cigarette before tossing it on the floor.

"Scott’s eyes are hard. Have you seen them? They’re proper puppy eyes."

"That’s true," Stiles murmurs as he gets up. He digs into his backpack and pulls out a worn paperback book. "Tell Laura to read this for her paper, by the way. She was whining to me on the phone last night about how she needed to write a paper about equality in literature and had no idea what to write about."

Cora takes the book and reads the cover. " _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Isn’t that the one with the black man who rapes a white woman?"

"He’s falsely accused and charged for it regardless," Stiles replies. "It’s great and it’ll be perfect for her paper."

"Thanks, she’ll be pleased. She’s coming down this weekend, you’ll come and see her, right?"

"Of course," Stiles grins. "Wouldn’t miss it for the world."

Suddenly, Cora’s name is bellowed across the court yard and they look to the side to see Derek standing by his car.

"Wait a minute!" Cora shouts back. Stiles raises his hand to wave and they both see Derek roll his eyes and climb into the car, pissed but waiting.

"He hates me," Stiles observes, glancing at Cora.

"No, he’s just jealous because uncle Peter likes you more than he likes him."

Stiles laughs. "You’re uncle just likes my cooking and weed."

"Thats the only reason _anyone_ likes you."

"Thanks, Cora. Really, what a way to boost someones confidence."

"You’re very welcome," Cora grins before she leaps off the table and begins walking towards the car park. She turns back to look at him when he doesn’t follow. "You’re not coming?"

"I’m going to head home first," Stiles replies. "My dad’s at the station so I’m going to take the chance to shower and grab my board."

Cora nods. "Do you want a lift?"

"I’m pretty sure Derek will purposely crash if I’m in the car," Stiles smirks. "I don’t mind walking."

"Okay, well, we’re going to go shopping on our way so what do you want for dinner?"

"Get the ingredients for Chilli Con Carne," Stiles replies, pulling his headphones back on. "And tell Peter not to touch anything. I’m cooking tonight."

"Yes, boss."

 

_— tbc._


	2. making shelter for a flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will i ever write a story that isn't all about stiles smoking cigarettes and being abused, and then derek comforting him? no? fabulous. 
> 
> enjoy fellow readers <3

****Stiles first met Deucalion when he was 15 in Maryland, the neighbouring valley to Beacon Hills. He’d been skateboarding through the backstreets late on a Friday night, the rickety wheels of his freshly bought skateboard from the thrift shop earlier that evening rattling as they ran over bumps and stones on the uneven sidewalks. He’d rounded a corner on a suburban house street, leaning to make the skateboard turn. A few feet from him, Stiles caught a glimpse of two hooded men standing on the side walk, the dingy streetlights glowing above them making them look like black silhouettes.

Stiles had rolled his skateboard to a stop as one of the men moved from the sidewalk to a parked car on the other side, driving off with a roaring rev of the engine. The last standing man turned to look at Stiles, and that was when he noticed the stick he was holding. At first, Stiles was sure he was going to get beaten to death with the mans weapon. He was in a lower part of Maryland, which is already rougher than Beacon Hills in general. He’d approached the man slowly, and when the light caught his face, Stiles noticed only his eyes.

He’d offered the man some help, only then realising that the 'weapon' the man was holding was a walking stick for the blind. The man had laughed, telling Stiles he could help him with _something_.

Stiles had dealt his first drug deal that night. The man, who introduced himself as Deucalion, had told Stiles he needed him to skate to a specific part of Maryland and seal the deal. Stiles had skated back to Deucalion’s place that night, which was nothing but a ordinary suburban house in the middle of a community estate, the only thing making the house stand out from the others being a couch on the front lawn and the Rolls Royce car in the driveway. He’d handed over the money that night to the blind man and met Kali, Ennis, Aiden and Ethan. Deucalion had then given him a small share and asked him if he wanted to do 'further business'.

Two years down the line, and Stiles is the best dealer in Beacon Hills and one of Deucalion’s right-hand men.

Ennis is sitting on the same couch that sits on the dead lawn when Stiles slows and hops off his board, jabbing his foot into one end to make it bounce up and scoop off the ground. He carries it under his arm as he approaches the house, tugging his headphones off his ears.

"Stiles," Ennis greets, nodding. The man is built like a tank: face like a mould of chiseled stone and muscles bulging beneath all of his clothes. His smile is sadistic and cruel, and reminds Stiles frequently of the Joker. He’s been around them all for long enough now not to be afraid. He trusts them, and knows none of them would cause him harm - unless he does something stupid. "Deucalion is waiting for you inside."

"Is everything okay?"

"It’s fine. He just got that extra stuff you asked for," Ennis replies. "We’re pretty busy, so you’ll have to grab and dash."

Stiles nods. "All right."

He goes inside with a familiarity. The house is like his second home, and he has no hesitation about walking straight in. The door is unlocked, as it always is, because no one dares to come in uninvited to Deucalion’s house.

Kali is sitting on the couch with Aiden, and after two years, Stiles is only _just_ managing to tell the identical twins apart. He smiles at them both, who raise eyebrows at him back. The group are hostile and cold, but they’re like another family to Stiles, one that is as thick as blood. He knows, at the end of the day, every single one of them will protect him if he needs it and vice versa.

Deucalion is waiting for him in the kitchen. It’s almost comical: walking in to see a island unit worktop entirely covered in small, egg shaped clear wrapped pockets of marijuana. Deucalion is plucking handfuls up and putting them in sections.

He looks up when Stiles comes in. His unseeing eyes are haunting, two globes of eerie red mist with two small black dots in the middle. Stiles used to shiver every time he met them, but two years of seeing darker things have led him to be immune to minuscule fears like that.

"Hello, Stiles," he says, face staying towards Stiles as his hands move and shift the packages on the table.

Stiles nods. "Deucalion. Lots of orders?"

"Just the regulars," he replies. "I've got the extra you asked for. What is it for?"

"Friends wanted some," Stiles replies. "Don't worry, you'll get your money for it."

"It's fine," Deucalion smiles, all crooked teeth and sinister vibes. "Consider it a birthday present."

"My birthday is in April."

"A very _early_ birthday present, then," Deucalion corrects. "How's your week been? Still at school?"

Stiles shrugs. "It's been fine. Same ol', same ol'. Got three more weeks before Christmas break."

"Aiden and Ethan are going away for Christmas with their parents. I'm going to need you, Ennis and Kali to carry their weight while they're gone."

"Of course," Stiles nods. "You know I won’t be doing anything."

That’s the truth: ever since Stiles’ mother died and his father became an abusive drunk, Stiles’ Christmas’ have been increasingly bland and lonely. He spends the actual Christmas Day with Scott and Melissa, but he can’t avoid the build up and the aftermath, or the time he spends alone because his father is either picking up shifts at the station and isn’t home, or he is home but he’s lost in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Days like those mean Stiles avoids his own home like the plague.

It is not unknown for Stiles to spend nights at Deucalion’s house, crashing out on the sofa to avoid sleeping in the streets or on parks benches. Especially with the winter months approaching fast, skating around all night or sketching on curb sides is hard when up against bitter winds and wet clouds.

Deucalion hands him a bag with various other white plastic bags inside. "Drop these off," he says. "Then come back and get yours."

Stiles nods and stuffs the bag into his rucksack. He scoops his skateboard up off the floor and leaves the house. His phone buzzes a minute later with a list of addresses and weights.

Two hours later, Stiles returns to the house. It’s dark now, the streets dim and gloomily lit by glitching street lights. The neighbourhood is rough during the day, but it’s like a ghost town at night.

Deucalion is sitting on the couch this time, leaning forward and counting dollar bills in his hands. Kali sits next to him, idly watching the TV while she picks at her finger nails, her feet resting in Deucalion’s lap.

Stiles drops the wade of bills on the coffee table as he walks in. "All done."

"Splendid," Deucalion replies, his accent thick. He takes a bag from the table and holds it up to Stiles. "Enjoy. It’s the good stuff."

"I thought all of our stuff was the 'good stuff'," Stiles replies, feigning confusion.

Deucalion smirks at him. "You know too much. Get out of here, kid."

Stiles returns a lop-sided smirk and leaves with a wave of his hand. It would normally take him half an hour to skate back to Beacon Hills, then another fifteen minutes to get to his house, but tonight, he feels restless. The idea of going home and being confined to his bedroom or to the roof outside his window makes his chest feel too tight. He doesn’t want to creep around his father again tonight, or feel the blossoming bruises be punched into his skin if his father is awake.

When Stiles reaches the Beacon Hills boundary line, he doesn't head home. He skates through the streets with a raspy whine of his wheels running over dirt and sidewalk rubble. He boosts the glide with his foot every now and then, leaning to turn. Wind blows in his hair, breezing the strands off his forehead and out of his eyes. He burrows down into his jacket, seeking warmth from the collar. His jeans are torn and ripped slightly at the knees from falls and scrapes, causing the chill to penetrate his legs like tiny needles. The roads are empty of cars, so he leaps off the sidewalk and zig-zags back and forth across the concrete surface of the roads.

There is something therapeutic, Stiles thinks, about being out alone at night. There is something about the stars glistening above on clear nights, the silent air, the empty streets, the soft hues of yellow lights, that is peaceful. Stiles relishes in the feeling, the freedom the lonely nights bring.

He skates through the estate and along the road to the Preserve. When he reaches the Preserve, he takes the dirt track that leads around the outside and up to the hills. It's a high trek, and he's warm underneath his layers when he reaches the top. From where he stands, he can see the entirety of Beacon Hills.

A fresh, cold wind rushes up the hill side and collides against the skin of Stiles' face like sharp slaps. He sits on the dirt, knees up to his chest and skateboard by his side, looking over the unlit stretch of Beacon Hills and the valley it sits in.

He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, inhaling the tobacco and fumes greedily before letting them out in a thin white cloud. Above him, the sky is clear and the stars stand out against the black blanket. He cranes his neck and looks up, and the more he looks, the more appear.

Sometimes, in moments like this, Stiles wonders if there is any better place in the world.

 

Stiles doesn't go home. In the morning, from the top of the hill, he skates down and catches the school bus from the closest stop. Scott doesn't have a clue Stiles got on at a different place as he gets on after Stiles' house anyway. Stiles has always had the opinion that the less Scott knows, the better.

Scott grins at him on the bus, dropping down in the worm seat next to him, oblivious to Stiles' sleepless night in the Preserve.

"So, you'll never guess what," Scott starts, and Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes.

"Allison has come out as lesbian and you cried like a broken-hearted puppy about it."

Scott's eyes widen. "No!" He squeaks, gaping. "What— how— _why_ would you even suggest that?"

"Because the hottest girls are always lesbian."

"Dude, I think that's homophobic."

"Scott, you wouldn't know a homophobic term if it slapped you around the face," Stiles retorts. "Now tell me what happened or I'll make another intellectual guess."

Scott rolls his eyes but caves none the less. "Me and Allison were talking last night for hours, like we didn't even stop until three or something—"

"Staying up past your bedtime, so rebellious, Scott."

"— _and_ , she finally agreed to come to the youth centre opening with me!"

Stiles frowns. "I thought she already was? Isn't that why I have to come? To keep you company until things get funky."

Scott frowns, confused, when Stiles wiggles his eyebrows as he says 'funky'. "No. You were coming as my wing man because Allison said she was going with _Lydia_ , but last night she said she wanted to go with me!"

"This isn't prom, Scott. She's not your date, you're not going to go in together."

Scott rolls his eyes again, bumping his shoulder into Stiles'. "You know what I mean."

"Does this mean I don't have to come anymore?"

"Oh no, you definitely have to come or Cora will rip your manhood from your body with her bare hands," Scott replies, face a stone of seriousness. "I'm not kidding. She is really looking forward to this 'sesh'."

"I hate it when she calls it that."

"Join the club," Scott grumbles. "You are bringing some though, right?"

"Of course I am. I wouldn't be coming if I wasn't."

Scott grins the entire rest of the ride.

 

Stiles is normally very good at managing his time at home with his fathers hours at the sheriff station. Nine times out of ten, he gets it right and is able to breeze through his home without fear or hesitation. But sometimes, he gets it very, very wrong.

Sliding off his headphones, the sound of Prince’s _When Doves Cry_ slowly disappearing from his ears, Stiles steps into the house that before he’d seen the driveway, he’d believed was empty. If he hadn’t needed some food for lunch that he’d forgotten to take with him and his rucksack from upstairs, Stiles would have thought about bolting.

Inside, he can hear the distant crackle and blare of the radio in the kitchen, and decides to make his way into there.

His father is sitting at the dining table, case papers sprawled around him. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler glass sit next to him. He looks up when Stiles walks in, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with the hit of alcohol that’s already struck him despite it only being five in the evening.

"Hey, dad," Stiles nods in greeting, not meeting his eyes and quickly going over to the fridge to retrieve some food. He takes his headphones from his neck and tucks them into his jacket pocket along with the cassette player. "Have you eaten?"

"Where were you last night?" John asks. Stiles’ back stiffens, detecting the tone of his voice. Warning signs flash in his head. "You didn’t come home again."

He chooses his answer carefully. "I was out with Scott."

"Is that so?" His father replies. "Then how is it Scott managed to be out with Allison and with you at the same time?"

Stiles feels all of the air leave his lungs. His father must have seen Scott and Allison out last night. _Shit_.

"I—"

"So, I will ask you again," his father interrupts, voice loud and booming in the small kitchen. "Where. Were. You?"

Stiles stares down at the carton of milk in his hands. He places it on the counter and replies, "I was just out."

"Look at me."

Stiles doesn’t move.

"Look at me!" John bellows, and then there’s the sound of a chair scraping across the tiled floor with a wailed shriek followed by a crash of wood and wall.

Stiles flinches and he turns slowly, like turning to greet a growling animal. John is standing, face a painting of red, intoxicated eyes blazing with an animalistic rage. Sometimes Stiles wonders how his father can switch from calm to a raging bull in seconds, but then he reminds himself that the older man has had plenty of years of practice.

"Tell me why you didn’t come home," John demands.

Stiles looks up from the floor and meets his eyes. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room, and he knows what is coming next when he says, "Because I didn’t want to."

His fathers lip curls up in a snarl.

"You little shit!" He snaps. "You make me the laughing stock of this fucking town, you know that?"

"You already _are_ the laughing stock," Stiles replies, not daring to look away from the burning eyes that threaten to run shivers down his spine. "People see you and they don’t see the sheriff. They see a drunk idiot."

If possible, his fathers face gets redder, matching the colour of the hood of Stiles’ red jacket. His chest expands fast and wide with his rushed breaths. He looks like a raging bull just waiting to _snap_.

"You _fucking_ —" he cuts himself off as he swings his arm and the chunky tumbler glass in his hand comes flying towards Stiles’ head. He ducks in time and the glass smashes against the wall, small shards raining down on him. He feels them nick his skin, slice into the feeble flesh of his cheeks and forehead.

He rises to his feet quickly, but it knocked down when he is struck _hard_. Pain explodes in the side of his face, needles penetrating the bony frame of eye socket. He crashes to the floor, crumbling like a folding decking chair. He doesn’t get a moment to catch the breath he lost from the blow before something hard is colliding with his chest. His ribs scream, his lungs deflate and the small amount of air left in his lungs leave like it’d been sucked out. Two more kicks come like bullets, making his eyes water. He gasps and cries out, curling in as much as he can to protect himself. The kicks hit his arms and knees, bringing a sharp ache to his bones.

The kicking stops, but he doesn’t have a chance to gather himself and his senses before a pair of hands are grabbing him by his collar and retching him up. The world spins and his head throbs. He doesn’t realise what is happening before the front door is opening and he’s flying through the air. He crashes and rolls down the porch steps, and lays there panting and throbbing on the driveway. He opens his eyes and looks up at the house to see his father standing on the porch, looking down on him.

Stiles flashes him the coldest glare he can muster from the crumbled form he resembles in the dirt below. His father stares, lip turned up still.

"Your mother would be disgusted by you," his father spits.

Stiles pushes himself to knees and looks up, chest heaving. "At least she’d still love me."

His father snarls at him and turns, disappearing inside the house with a slam of the door that shakes the frame.

Stiles lets out a breath and falls back, sprawling out on the lawn, thin limbs spread. He breathes slow and with hesitation, chest aching with every rise and fall as his ribs expand. His face burns with pain, his eye throbs and his cheeks sting. His father has really done a number on him this time, but it’s no worse than it always is.

After a few minutes, he feels he has caught his breath and risks moving. He sits up, his ribs screaming in protest but he grits his teeth and manages to climb to his feet. When he is upright, the world is attacked by white stars that bleed into his vision. He ignores them and forces his legs to work.

He rounds the house, cradling his aching ribs with his hands, and stands underneath his bedroom window. He begins to climb the rickety frame of the back porch and climbs to his open window. He goes inside, grabbing his rucksack, that contains his sketchpad and pencils, and his skateboard that is propped up against the foot of his bed. With his bag on his back and his board under his arm, Stiles climbs back out the window and off the porch back onto the ground. As he rounds to the front of the house again, he pulls his headphones out of his pocket, relieved that both they and the cassette player weren’t broken during the scuffle. He slides them over his ears as he approaches the sidewalk, blasting _Eye of the Tiger_ into his ears.

He sees his neighbour, Pauline, an elderly widow, sitting on her front porch, curled in a rocking chair. She’s watching him, and Stiles knows she watched and heard the fight between him and his father.

Stiles puts his board down and as he jumps on and rolls down the sidewalk, he waves briefly as he passes.

He gets to the Preserve in no time. He knows the forest like the back of his hand and doesn't have to even look as he picks to his board and walks through the trees, finding the lake in no time.

A medium shallow, turquoise lake runs directly through the middle of the Preserve. It's wide enough that to get across you need to swim waist deep and large rocks and boulders line some of the river bank that isn't curved with grass and mud.

Stiles climbs up and sits cross-legged on one of the larger boulders. He pulls out his pad and pencils. His chest aches and throbs with every breath, his head pulsating with rhythmic pounds like a drum being banged.

He ignores it. He ignores it every time. He's a creature of habit, and it's become a habit to hide the bruises that litter his skin and he cries he has to swallow down.

He opens his book to his latest page, an unfinished portrait of Scott, and begins to draw.

 

Derek rolls his eyes for the millionth time as Erica and Isaac fight in the back seat, for the third time that day, about the volume of Erica's wild, curly hair. Derek has long tuned out, but as far as he knows, the pair are having a heated disagreement about the relevance of all of Erica's hair product and stress about the humidity 'swelling her hair'. Derek shoots Boyd a sympathetic glance, the other teen sitting next to him in the passenger seat, because only he seems to understand the ridiculousness of the whole ordeal.

The volume in the back increases just as Derek is coming up to the sharp final turn into the Preserve and he takes it quick and harsh, feeling satisfied when he hears yelps and groans in the back seats as the pair of bodies are thrown around against the expensive interior.

"That was unnecessary," Erica grumbles, rubbing the side of her head where it had bashed against the frame of the window.

"So is your petty arguments," Derek replies gruffly, meeting her eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Karma's a bitch."

"And his name is Derek."

Derek flashes a grin before he slows the car to a stop and changes the gear to park.

Beacon Hills is a quiet town, which means for a group of seniors, it's a boring town. With the youth centre closed and overtaken by drug dealers, jocks like Derek have no where to go. Therefore, him and his friends retreat to the Preserve that surrounds his family home.

They all clamber out and head in. Erica and Isaac continue to disagree about everything they can possibly think of while Derek and Boyd walk ahead, stepping over logs and around trees. After a few minutes, they reach the lake.

"I have been dying to dip my toes in here all day," Erica gushes as it comes into sight. She immediately toes off her shoes and takes off her fish-net tights. Her feet disappear under the clear water, distorted by the disturbed movements and ripples in the lakes surface.

Derek leaps onto one of the boulders and relishes for a moment as the wind breezes through his dark hair, caressing his skin in a consistent cool breath.

"Hey, Isaac," Boyd starts, "Isn't that the kid who works in the record store with you?"

Derek looks up the same time everyone else does. In the distance, a stretch down the river, sits a small figure on one of the rocks. His head is bowed, looking down at something sitting in his lap, a cloud of white smoke rising and fading slowly above his head.

"Oh yeah," Isaac replies.

"He's the kid that supplied us with that grass last year at Jackson's party," Erica adds. "What's his name again?"

"Stiles," Isaac answers. He jumps off the rock he'd climbed up on, taking a few steps along the bank before he shouts. "Stiles! Hey!"

The said teen looks up when his name is called, finding Isaac and the others immediately. Almost nervously, he raises his hand and waves slightly. He makes no move to get up as Isaac makes his way along the lake side towards him, watching as he approaches.

"He's the kid who hangs out with Cora and that shaggy-haired kid, isn't he?" Erica asks, and they all know she's referring the 'shaggy-haired kid' to Scott McCall.

Derek doesn't reply and watches Stiles the rock he's still standing on. He recognises him. He's seen him around the town, knows he's Sheriff Stilinski's only child. He recognises from school, from when Jackson shoves him into lockers and from when Cora brings him home some afternoons. He's the kid who Cora attached herself to at the start of high school because he was the only one who was any 'fun', as Cora described him.

In Derek's opinion, Stiles is just a trouble maker looking for attention. He's always provoked Jackson, always attracted trouble towards Cora despite him always taking the fall for it when they get caught in school, and the most obvious that the majority of the younger population of the town know: deals drugs.

As Isaac reaches the rock and begins to talk to Stiles, it is then that Derek notices the blossoming bruises on the younger teens face. Normally, Derek wouldn't be surprised, but he doesn't remember Jackson mentioning the kid today. Normally, Jackson whines or talks about Stiles if they'd had a run-in that day, but there had been no word so far.

"I've always found it ironic how the Sheriff's son is the towns criminal drug dealer," Erica muses, bent down so she's leaning on the back of her calf's, her feet still under the water.

"Yeah, well, it's not like they have a very good relationship, is it? I'm not surprised the kid rebels," Boyd says.

Derek frowns at that, thoughts coming to a confused halt. He doesn't get a chance to ask Boyd what he means before Isaac comes back, looking slightly pale.

"The usual?" Boyd asks.

Isaac pulls out a box of cigarettes, placing one between his lips as he nods in reply to Boyd.

"Fucking asshole," Erica curses. "What a fucking waste of space."

"What are you guys talking about?" Derek asks.

"I'm surprised you don't know already," Erica replies. "It's not like its new news."

Derek gives her a deadpanned look. "Just tell me already. Was is Jackson? Did Jackson give him those bruises?"

Erica, Boyd and Isaac all meet each others eyes for a moment before Boyd answers, "It's the sheriff. It's always been the sheriff."

 

Derek can’t sleep. The world outside his bedroom window is silent, but his thoughts are everything else. And his thoughts are all orbiting on one thing:

Stiles.

Derek can’t get his head around it. John is the sheriff, the towns protector and highest law authority, and yet Boyd, Isaac and Erica are accusing him of abusing his son. Derek doesn’t know if he can believe it. Whenever he has met the sheriff, the man has been formal and determined, as he was kind when he turned up at Derek’s door to tell him his parents had died in a car crash on their way home from New York. John Stilinski had sat with Derek and his sisters for hours until their uncle Peter had gotten home. That man, who made them hot chocolates and held them as their cried, cannot be the man Isaac described him to be.

Can he?

Isaac said the whole town knows. How can a whole town know about something like this and not do anything? How can they continue to sit around while they’re making allegations about the town’s sheriff abusing a child?

In the morning, after a few fitful hours of sleep, Derek gets up at the break of dawn and goes to the record store, where he knows Isaac is going to be opening the shop in an hour.

He bangs on the door when he gets there and watches through the glass as Isaac comes out from the back room, frowning at the banging and rolling his eyes when he see’s Derek.

"Do I really need to tell you we don’t open till nine?" He says as he unlocks and opens the door.

"I’m not here to shop," Derek replies. "Can I come in?"

"Can it wait?"

"Definitely not."

Isaac watches him for a moment, face a small frown. He sighs, nodding and opening the door further to let Derek inside.

"How long has it been going on?" Derek asks.

"How long has what being going on?" Isaac asks, closing the door and locking it again.

"The sheriff abusing Stiles. How long has everyone known?"

"Jesus, Derek," Isaac sighs, rubbing his face and walking past him back to the stock room. " _That_ is why you came here? To talk about Stiles?"

"How long, Isaac?" Derek repeats, following him. "Has this been going on for weeks? Years? Why do you know? Why does everyone know?"

"Derek. Slow down—"

"No! This is serious, Issac—"

"You think I don’t know that?" Isaac shouts. His eyes are hard, jaw clenched. His breaths are deeper, as if he’s on the brink of losing his temper. " _Fuck_ , Derek. I work with the kid. I have to see him everyday and _watch_ as he tries to cover up the bruises and the winces and—"

"And yet you do nothing about it," Derek says. Isaac’s face drops, jaw slack and shocked. "I’m surprised, Isaac. Especially after everything you’ve been through with your father."

"Don’t do that. Do _not_ compare the situations," Isaac growls. "My father. . . it was different."

"Hardly," Derek knows this is a cold blow. He knows he’s his Isaac where it hurts most, but it’s not different. Isaac spent the later part of his childhood being a punching bag for his father, mentally and physically abused by his old man until a elderly neighbour finally did something.

"He’s better now. He got help. The sheriff doesn’t need help, it’s just _him._ "

"Isaac. . . why didn’t I know about this? If everyone knows, why has no one done something, like that lady did for you?"

Isaac looks sad. "Derek, that lady went to the police. She went to the _sheriff_. We can’t go to the sheriff about his own abuse."

"There are other deputies," Derek insists. "We can contact someone from out of town, someone with higher authority."

He’s beginning to feel desperate and he doesn’t know why. He’s never taken any close interest in the Stilinski boy until now. He’s never felt any attraction, any need to stare too long. Whenever Stiles has been over, to see Cora or Laura when she comes home from college, Derek has paid the familiar face no time or attention. Now, he really wishes he has.

Isaac is shaking his head. "It won’t work, Derek. This is a small town. No one gives a shit about anything that happens around here."

"They have to give a shit. The sheriff is an abusive asshole!"

"Derek, you really need to watch what you say," Isaac warns. "The man is the sheriff, if you accuse him of something like this or shout things like that then you’re going to land yourself in a jail cell."

"This is stupid. This is _inhumane_."

"There’s nothing we can do," Isaac replies.

Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes. "And who told you that?"

"Stiles did," Isaac answers. "I’ve known for a long time, Derek, and I’ve _always_ wanted to do something. But _stiles_ is the one who told me not to. He told me that John won’t let anything happen to himself. He has that much power, Derek. Its 19-fucking-82. No one is going to give a shit about a small town boy who’s daddy hits him for shits and giggles."

"This can’t keep happening," Derek shakes his head. "How can you see him everyday? How can you _see_ what is happening and _not_ want to do something?"

"I do want to do something, Derek," Isaac cries. "Of course I want to do something. But as someone who has been there before, I know when Stiles says do to nothing, we do _nothing._ "

"Can’t you see how wrong that is?"

"Of course I can," Isaac replies, and there’s an urgency in his voice that screams _this isn’t my choice, don’t hate me for this._ "Fucking hell, Derek. There is nothing more I want to do than grab Stiles by the collar, take him away and make that son of a bitch go to jail. But I can’t, and neither can you. That’s just the way it is."

Derek shakes his head. "No—"

"Yes, Derek. This has been going on for years. You’ve only just found out, and I know how you feel. I was you when I first found out too. I was determined to do something, to change what was happening and help Stiles, but I couldn’t do anything and Stiles didn’t _want_ me to do anything. He’s not happy, but he’s coping, and that’s all anyone can want."

"He comes to my house. He hangs out with my sisters and uncle. He knew my family. And I seem to be the only person who didn’t know what was happening to him behind his closed doors."

"Lots of people don’t know, Derek."

"But more people _do._ That’s the point, Isaac. Why did no one tell me?"

Isaac inclines his head and speaks with a clipped, sharp tone. "When was the last time you paid attention to town gossip? Because that’s what this is: town gossip."

"It’s more than that. It’s a _child_ being abused by someone at higher power."

"That’s right. Higher power, which means there is nothing you can fucking do about it."

Derek takes a moment to take Isaac in. He looks tired now, worn down as if this conversion had chipped away at his outer shell and beneath all the layers has revealed this raw, broken being who’s heart is in the right place. Derek knows how much this must break Isaac, to watch someone younger than him be in the same position as him and not be able to help. Derek knows it’s not Isaac’s fault, he just can’t believe the blonde is still sitting back and letting it happen.

 _But he’s not_ , Derek has to remind himself. _He just doesn’t have a choice._

"I’m sorry," Derek apologises. "I didn’t. . ."

"Don’t apologise for caring, Derek," Isaac says, flashing him a smile. "I’m surprised, though. I didn’t realise gave a shit about Stiles."

"This is more than giving a shit," Derek grumbles.

"You don’t give a shit when it’s Jackson giving him bruises," Isaac counters, and Derek now see’s where this is going. Isaac has always had a problem with Jackson, has always lost his voice whenever Jackson brings up 'that shit Stilinski' in conversations at school. Derek isn’t the only one who’s noticed how Isaac never seems to individually interact with Jackson, or how the pair will never been seen together in a group less than four. "Why do you care just because it’s his dad thats doing it?"

"That’s different and you know it," Derek insists, but it’s a weak argument in his own ears.

"Is it?" Isaac asks. "Is it really?"

A moment of silence passes between them. Derek can feel his own heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s got himself so worked up about this.

Isaac sighs like he can _hear_ the turmoil in Derek’s head. "You can ask anyone around here, Derek. No one really gives a shit."

"But _why_?"

"Because they know Stiles. He’s a 17 year old delinquent who sells drugs and gets in trouble at school."

"And why is that?" Derek asks heatedly. "Because his mother died when he was a child and his old man beats him!"

"It’s just the way it is," Isaac replies. "If Stiles can deal with it, so can you. Now, you better get out of here because Stiles will be here any minute for his shift."

"He’s coming here? To work?" Derek asks. "Even when you know he’s hurt?"

"He’s got a bruise on his cheek and some sore ribs. Believe me, Derek, he’s had far worse and worked with it."

"That’s not comforting at all."

"Wasn’t meant to be," Isaac whips back. There’s the sound of a lock unlocking behind Derek and Isaac looks up from where he’d opened the cash register draw. "Stiles. Morning, buddy."

"Hey, Isaac," Stiles says, and when he passes Derek and looks at him, he nods. "Derek."

"Stiles," Derek greets awkwardly. He watches Stiles with staring eyes as he opens the staff room door and tosses his rucksack and skateboard inside, closing it a moment later. He’s dressed in a pair of dark jeans that are rolled up to reveal a pair of beaten-to-bits converse. He’s got layers on: a blue workman’s jacket on top of a unbuttoned grey shirt, on top of a white polo shit with the record logo sewn into the fabric above his right pec. His brown hair is askew, the dark colour contrasting with the white of his ivory skin. Instantly, Derek’s eyes are drawn to his cheek, where the bruise has manifested overnight into a hideous purple smudge. It looks worse, Derek realises.

"Can you get started on bringing the new stock out? We need to get them all on the shelves today," Isaac asks.

Stiles looks at him and nods. "Sure."

After he disappears into the backroom, Isaac turns to Derek. "Remember what I said. Please. Don’t try and be a hero, Derek."

"I won’t."

"You mustn’t," Isaac insists, sounding pained and desperate. "You’ll cause more trouble than you’ll solve."

"I don’t know if I can sit back and let this happen, Isaac. He’s best friends with my sister."

"He’s like a little brother to me, Derek, I know how you feel, but we can’t," Isaac shakes his head. "We just can’t."

 

_— tbc._


	3. tell me which piece of you is missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first post of 2019, whoop whoop! hope y'all had a good one <3

****The night of the Youth Centre opening is clear and cold. The sky is cloudless and the stars stand out blindingly above the sleepy town. Stiles doesn’t turn up for the grand opening. He rolls up on his skateboard half an hour after the party commenced. He hides his board behind a dustbin a road down and stuffs his hands into his pockets as he approaches the centre. The night air is still but bitingly cold, stinging like pincers against the base skin of Stiles’ face. His hands get lost in the huge pockets of his blue workman’s jacket that he’d got from Deucalion a year ago, the pockets perfect for hiding goody bags.

Greenberg sits on the door, leaning against a pile of crates, looking down at an incomplete Rubik Cube in his hands.

"You haven’t got very far with that since History yesterday," Stiles comments as he walks up.

Greenberg lifts his head and sighs, "Shut up, Stilinski. It’s fucking hard."

"You kiss your mama with that mouth, Greenberg?" Stiles mocks, and as he walks past, he kicks the bottom crate hard, causing it to slide out and the tower to crumble backwards in a heap. Greenberg falls with a cried yelp.

"Stilinski! You fucking shit!"

Stiles smirks as the other teen shouts, walking briskly down the corridor to the main hall. There are people standing around, leaning against walls, cups in their hands, talking.

One guy, who Stiles recognises as Matt, moves off the wall when he see’s Stiles coming by.

"Hey, Stilinski, I paid Cora—"

"You get it from Cora not from me," Stiles replies, not stopping or slowing down. He breezes past, not even looking at Matt. "We don’t give out damn receipts, Daehler. I don’t know if you paid."

He follows the sound of music and the flash of lights, and quickly finds himself standing in a room filled with couches and seating areas. Theres pool tables in the corner, boom-boxes against the walls. One is blasting out Tina Turners _What’s Love Got to Do with it._ Stiles spots Cora in the corner and squeezes through the gaps between people and groups to meet her. Erica, Boyd and Isaac are already sitting there, lounging on two couches.

"Stiles!" Cora shouts when he gets close. "Did you bring it?"

"You really think I would have risked turning up without it?" Stiles scoffs. He pulls out the bag and puts it in Cora’s waiting palm. "Pretty sure everyone would have ripped my limbs apart if I’d turned up empty handed."

Erica barks a laugh. "Wouldn’t be very hard."

Stiles flashes her a deadpanned look before looking back to Cora. He opens her hand when she pulls out a small clear bag of dollar bills.

"I got everyone to pay in advance," Cora tells him, "saves the same trouble we had last time."

Stiles nods. "Cheers. Have you guys got drinks?"

"I haven’t," Erica says, rising to her feet from where she was practically sitting in Boyd’s lap. "Everyone still has theirs."

Stiles chuckles. "Why am I not surprised that you’re the one who’s finished first?"

Erica smacks him up the side of the head. "Shut up, Stilinski, and get moving."

As he’s shoved away, Stiles looks over his shoulder and asks, "Cora, have you got stuff to roll with?"

He see’s Cora nod before there’s another shove into his back and he is ploughed into the crowds.

"The centre have provided us with the blessings of _soda_ , so of course our delightful peers have brought us the good stuff," Erica tells him, walking close to his side as they weave through the people. "Head over to the boom-box. Danny’s there."

"Got it."

Danny is leaning against the boom-box, the speakers blaring and bellowing out music. The Hawaiian is dressed in a pair of white-washed blue jeans, tucked into a pair of white nike high-tops and a matching jean jacket. The first thing Stiles notices, is that beneath the open jacket, Danny doesn’t have a t-shirt on.

"Hey, Danny-boy," Erica says. Her blonde hair is permed and defying gravity, sitting on her shoulders to reveal the full view of her blue and black spotty dress and her knee-high white boots, the heal high and wedge-like. "We need drinks."

Danny looks over to them and grins. "Hello again, Erica. Hi, Stiles. Nice to see you’re finally here."

"Cora’s got the stuff, not me. She’ll come to you when she’s rolled it," Stiles replies - he knows flattery, and anyone who's extra nice to him tonight is being nice because they want some grass. "I’m not that late. Why is everyone asking already?"

"Because we’ve all been here for hours and we’re bored," Erica replies, taking her cup when Danny’s filled it up with something clear. "I’ll meet you back over there, alright?"

"Alright," Stiles nods and a moment later, Erica is turning and disappearing back into the crowd with a wave of blonde hair.

He turns back to Danny, and the dark-skinned boy is looking him up and down.

Stiles feels a smirk tug the corner of his mouth. "What you lookin’ at, Danny?"

"Was wondering why you haven’t dressed up," Danny replies.

Stiles shrugs. "Didn’t have time or energy. Why, what’s wrong with my pants? Did I put them on backwards again?"

"Nothings wrong with them," Danny shakes his head, smiling slyly, finding his eyes. "Just curious how you can pull off jeans and a old-mans jacket at a party and still look good."

"It’s a talent," Stiles grins, holding up a cup.

"You should buff up, though," Danny adds, pulling out a small flask. "Girls don’t like boney boys."

"Thanks, Danny, I really needed that advice," Stiles rolls his eyes. "Not all of us can be 'buff'."

"You could if you worked out and smoked less."

"All right, _mom_ , I’ll get right on that."

Danny rolls his eyes. "Don’t take it personally, Stilinski. You know you’re still hot as shit."

"Thanks, Danny," Stiles replies. "And we both know it’s not the girls I try to impress."

Danny’s eyebrows rise slowly and before Stiles turns, he flashes a quick wink.

Back at the couches, Cora is trying - and failing - to roll a joint.

"Cora," Stiles sighs, sitting down in the chair opposite everyone. "Give it here before you screw it up."

Cora rolls her eyes but none-the-less shoves the supplies towards him on the coffee table between them all.

"Watch and learn, children," Stiles says as he starts. Within five minutes, he has half the bag rolled and is finishing another.

Isaac snatches one off the table and brings it to his lips. "I have been dying for one of these all week."

Stiles looks up and raises an eyebrow. "Isaac, you did it yesterday at work."

"You give it to him during the week?"

"No, he took some of mine," Stiles replies, running his tongue along the edge of the paper and rolling it. "Alright, start handing these out. I’ll have the rest done when you come back."

Cora scoops the finished ones off the table and disappears. By the time she gets back, everyone is passing around the joint Isaac picked up and Stiles is leaning back in the cushioned couch chair.

"I swear to God these people are savages. Matt practically snatched it out of my fucking fingers," Cora curses.

Stiles snorts, taking the joint from Boyd. "He asked me on my way in for one. Guy has got no patience."

"Or friends."

"Ouch, Lahey, that’s cold."

"Am I wrong? The guy is more lame than Scott!"

Stiles snorts, and then he frowns, "Where is Scott?"

"Take a wild guess," Erica replies. "They’re all in the corner by the pool tables."

Stiles looks over his shoulder and unsurprisingly, Scott _is_ in the corner by the pool tables, surrounded by Lydia and Jackson’s squads. Allison is sitting in his lap, her arm around his shoulder and his around her waist. Lydia and Jackson are sitting together next to them while Derek is shooting a ball on the pool table.

"I’m surprised Derek hasn’t come over and dragged Cora away by her ear," Isaac laughs, and Stiles forces himself to look away and back to the group.

Cora flips him off and picks up the last of the rollies, disappearing into the crowd for the final time. Stiles takes the joint from Isaac and ignores the sympathetic look the other teen sends him.

Stiles finishes the drink Danny gave him, the straight vodka tasting bitter on his tongue and burning his mouth before he climbs to his feet and gestures to his empty cup to indicate he’s going to get another drink.

Danny is still standing by the boom-box, but he’s now standing with Theo Raeken instead of standing on his own. Stiles falters in his step for a second. He hasn’t seen Theo Raeken since their one-night-stand during the summer before he moved to a neighbouring town and changed schools, so seeing him standing there, the collar of his blue jacket turned up and red pants tight in all the right places, Stiles almost trips over his own feet.

Theo spots him first, and mid sentence, he breaks out into a smile.

"Stiles Stilinski, fancy seeing you here," he says, leaning further against the box. His smile and smirk is the same as before: cocky, sly and confident. Theo hasn’t changed a bit.

"I could say the same about you," Stiles replies, stopping in front of them. "Thought you moved to Santa Barbara."

"I did, I’m just back for the weekend. Danny told me to come tonight, and I’m glad I did," his smile grows as his eyes trail up and down slightly. "You look good."

"I’ve been told," Stiles smiles stiffly. He looks to Danny and holds up his cup, "Any left?"

"Only because Cora just gave me my grass," Danny replies, winking and pulling out his flask.

"How do you even have anything left in that?"

"This isn’t my only flask, Stiles," Danny laughs, pouring his cup full. "I heard Jackson has some more if you need any."

"Oh, yeah," Stiles nods, "but I’m pretty sure I’d rather hang myself."

Theo snorts into his own cup. "I’m pretty sure Jackson would hang you himself."

Stiles flashes him a half-hearted glare, shrugging because honestly, they all know that is true.

Danny pockets his flask before saying, "I’m going to go and find Isaac."

"He’s on the chairs in the corner," Stiles replies, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction he came from.

Danny nods and goes off, patting Stiles’ shoulder as he goes.

"So," Theo moves an inch closer, crossing his arms. "Who gave you the bruises?"

"Your dirty talk has gone down hill since the summer."

Theo rolls his eyes. "You haven’t changed a damn bit."

"It’s only been five months," Stiles replies, quirking an eyebrow. "People don’t change that much."

"I’ve changed. Santa Barbara changed me."

"What a relief," Stiles sighs. "You were a total _dupek_ (asshole) before."

Theo barks a laugh. "Speak for yourself, Stilinski. Pretty sure you’re the towns asshole!"

Stiles scrunches up his nose and Theo grimaces.

"That sounded weirder than I intended."

"It put a beautiful image in my head, thank you very much."

Theo laughs so hard his cheeks glow red.

"Man, I missed you," he says after a minute. "I think out of everyone in town, I missed you the most, Stilinski."

Stiles nods. "You missed me in bed, Raeken. Don’t get the two confused."

Theo rolls his eyes and tilts his head forward. If anyone was watching, they’d assume Theo was flirting by the way his body is leaning against the box and his eyes are seductive in Stiles’ direction.

"You haven’t told anyone about us, have you?" Theo asks, and Stiles can sense a tone of vulnerability in his voice.

Stiles shakes his head. "Don’t sweat it. No one knows."

"Good," Theo nods, huffing a laugh. Stiles knows he’s relieved. "You know you’re the only guy I like, don’t you?"

"I figured as much," Stiles replies. "I’m going to go now. How long are you staying for?"

"Just the weekend. Will I see you around before I go?"

"Maybe."

Theo smiles. "Good. I’m staying with Danny. Just ring their number and ask for me."

"Will do. Bye now, Theo."

"Bye, Stiles."

Moving back into the crowd, Stiles has to fight to keep the smile off his face. He has no feelings for Theo other than teenage horniness. The feelings he held for Lydia, and the feelings he holds for Derek now, Stiles has never and will never have for Theo. He has the feelings for a friend, and feelings of body-needs.

Moving back through the crowd, an arm loops around Stiles’ own and he’s spun. Cora’s face almost collides with his own. She giggles loudly, and holds him by the shoulders.

"Dance with us!" She shouts.

Stiles shakes his head. "You know I don’t dance."

"Yes, you do, you’re just worried it will damage your masculine ego," Cora rolls her eyes. "You’re a good dancer. Just dance with me!"

"Cora—"

"Dance!"

Stiles can’t escape, and when Erica, Danny and Isaac join them, Stiles doesn’t even try anymore. He dances to the bellowing song being played from above, sings to the lyrics with Cora to Bobby Day’s ' _Rockin’ Robin_ '. Stiles downed the half-full cup of vodka, feeling it go straight to his head and uses the feeling to let loose and careless on the dance floor. He twirls and spins with Cora, rolls his shoulder like a worm with Isaac and bounces with Erica. Others dance around him, relaxed with alcohol and Stiles' 'wacky grass'. He sings along to the song, his voice lost in the loudness of the song playing and the racket of others singing. Erica's voice sings the loudest, boldest in the room.

After a while, Stiles runs out of moves and the song playing is unknown to him so he subtly moves from the group and out of the crowd. He drops down in the chair he'd first sat in when he arrived as looks out over the floor where people had decided was best to dance. His eyes move from Cora and Isaac to where Allison and Scott are practically grinding on each other. His heart sinks with a slow drop. What had Scott said to him when he'd asked Stiles to come? - he'd promised _not_ to ditch Stiles for Allison.

Stiles shouldn't be surprised, or hurt. He should have expected this - he _was_ expecting this, but it doesn't make it sting any less to be struck with the realisation that Scott hasn't even looked for him.

Filled with a cold emptiness deep in his stomach, Stiles pulls out his box of straights and brings a cigarette to his lips. The youth centre may be new and grand, but that doesn't mean any new rules are going to be followed. The old youth centre was just a hang out for teenagers to sit, drink and smoke. The new opening of the same dingy building means the same rules apply.

Lighting the cigarette and taking a deprived and desperate inhale, Stiles' eyes fall to Derek, who still stands by the pool table, now accompanied by Boyd because Jackson must have gone off with Lydia. He watches Derek bend over, pool-stick in hand and jabs the ball with precise skill. He wonders why Derek isn't dancing, and then reminds himself that he will never be able to imagine Derek, who's public appearance is blank expressions and stiff shoulders, to ever be relaxed and free enough to dance shamelessly on a public dance floor. But Stiles also wants to see it. He wants to see a side to Derek that no one else is gifted to see. He wants to see Derek at his lowest, at his highest, at his best and at his worst. He wants to see Derek in private, the true Derek that isn't dictated by his surname or the reputation he's built.

He wants to be able to feel the same way about Derek like Scott feels about Allison. He wants that connection, that salvation. He wants that same kind of escape, that same place to lose himself to and let someone else hold him for a while.

Memories of Theo flood his vision and he looks through the swaying crowd to the boom-box, where Danny and Theo are no longer standing. Fragments of that night spent alone come back in flashes and Stiles wonders if they'd be able to recreate it again. If he called, would Theo really want to? That night in the summer, Stiles had felt something in himself that he has never had before. But, he also feels like he lost something. He gave something away that he won't be able to get back or regain.

A weight at his side brings Stiles abruptly out of his thoughts.

Erica grins when he meets her eyes, "Hey, skinny boy. Why you sitting all alone?"

"Don't know the song and wanted to smoke," Stiles replies, holding up the almost dead cigarette bud.

Erica pulls out a joint from her pocket and grins wider, mouth like a frog it’s so devious. "Want something better than a cigarette?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and hands her his lighter. They share the joint between them while watching the sea of dancing and jiggling bodies in front of them.

"Why aren’t you dancing anymore?"

"Cora and Isaac are getting frisky. Needed to get out of there before I found myself in a surprise threesome."

Stiles chokes on his own breath, stutters a laugh and a disguised snort. "Jesus. I always knew there was something between those two."

"Oh my, Isaac is as smitten for Cora as you are for Derek!"

Stiles’ eyes bulge until they’re almost falling out of his sockets. He looks to Cora in surprise. "I am _not_ smitten for Derek."

"Yes, you are!" Erica roars, laughing. "It’s so obvious you might as well declare you love for him on a billboard!"

"Shut up, Erica," he grumbles, snatching the joint from her fingers and slumping further down into the chair.

Erica laughs harder, her cheeks glowing red from it and the mix with alcohol. He has no idea how much Erica has drank, but she’s always been a bit of a lightweight.

"So," she starts, arranging herself in the chair so she’s leaning towards him, her long body curved like a wave, "when are you planning on making a move in that department?"

"What department?" Stiles feigns, finishing the joint. "There’s no move to make."

Erica scoffs so loud for a moment, Stiles thinks she’s choking.

"You’re such a dumbass. When are you going to realise he feels the same way?"

"Yeah, right. I’ll realise that as soon as Isaac realises he’s in love with Cora Hale."

"Prepare yourself then, Stilinski, because if I have anything to do with it, they’ll be in each others bedsheets before Christmas."

"I’m actually not surprised about that," Stiles muses. "You’re like Beacon Hills’ very own cupid."

"I’m prettier than cupid."

 

Hours later, Stiles skates through the empty night streets of Beacon Hills. His skateboard scrapes and scratches along the uneven sidewalks as he moves through the dozing town. _Red Red Wine_ by UB40 plays on his cassette and blasts in his ears. He leans to the side and cuts a corner sharply, not faltering in his motions and skating.

His head is fogging and weightless from the weed, body heavy and relaxed from the alcohol. The mix is catastrophic, but feels so damn good as the cold wind blows in his hair and against his face. He’s cold, his skin covered in goosebumps as the layers of shirts and jackets brings him no relief from the winter air. The holes in his jeans grant access for the breeze to chill his legs and make his knees stiff.

Stiles skates in large circles, running through the songs on his cassette. The hours turn small and Saturday comes fast and quiet. Stiles skates into a empty car park outside the _GoMart_ convenient store, the concrete grounds lit by tall strobe lights. The store is closed and the lights inside are off, and Stiles notices when he looks up that there is one car parked.

He doesn’t need a moment to recognise the car and instantly knows the owner. He smirks to himself and as he skate closer, he see’s that someone is sitting in the passenger seat.

He skates over and knocks on the window with his knuckles. The person inside jumps, eyes wide and white as they look up at Stiles, soon turning into a glare.

Derek rolls his eyes and winds down the window. "Hello, Stiles."

"Good morning, Derek," Stiles drawls, leaning down and crossing his arms on the sill of the window. He glances down at the watch on his wrist. "Care to explain why you’re sitting in your car, all alone, in an empty car park, at three in the morning?"

"Why don’t you explain why you’re skating around at three in the morning?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "It isn’t unusual for me to be out at this time."

"It’s winter," Derek deadpans. "You could catch a cold, or worse and get pneumonia."

"Thanks, Doctor Phil, as if I didn’t know that," Stiles rolls his eyes again. "I’ve been doing this for four years and I haven’t caught pneumonia yet."

"You just jinxed yourself."

Stiles fights the smile, and ultimately fails. "I’ll remember that. Now, tell me why you’re out here all alone instead of hanging with your band of bum-buddies."

"Bum-buddies?"

"You know exactly who I’m talking about."

"One of these 'bum-buddies' is your best friend."

"Don’t speak of that traitor," Stiles gasps over-dramatically.

Derek rolls his eyes. "I’m just out here thinking. Is that such a crime?"

"It’s not a crime, but it is a bad idea," Stiles replies, and Derek actually chuckles.

A moment of silence stretches between them. Derek looks lost in thought: he’s looking ahead, through the windscreen and out into the dark, empty carpark.

Then, he looks back at Stiles.

"Are you sober?"

"I’m moderately functional."

"I’ll take that as a no," Derek rolls his eyes. "Get in the car, I’ll take you home."

Stiles scrunches up his nose. "Why do I need to go home?"

"Because it’s three in the morning and you’re skating around an empty parking lot," Derek replies, deadpanned, raising a thick eyebrow.

Stiles nods and looks away. He meets Derek’s eyes a moment later, "I don’t want to go home."

Derek swallows almost audibly. "Why?"

"I think you know why," Stiles whispers. He wouldn’t be surprised if Derek knows about his father - everyone else does. Cora knows, so Stiles would surprised if Derek _didn’t_ know by now.

A sudden gust of chilled wind crashes into him and stings his skin. He finally caves. "All right. You remember where I live, right?"

Derek nods and jerks his head towards the passenger seat.

When Stiles gets in and puts his skateboard between his feet, he see’s that Derek is frowning at him.

"What?"

"You smell like marijuana," Derek replies.

Stiles rolls his eyes for the hundredth time that night. "Oh, I wonder why!"

"It’s disgusting."

"Have you never done it?"

"I’m an athlete, Stiles," Derek reminds him as they drive through the deserted streets. "I don’t smoke anything."

"You totally should," Stiles grins. "It’s fucking amazing."

"That’s the worst advice anyone could ever give."

Stiles scoffs and shakes his head. "I give the best advice."

"Stiles, you just told me to start smoking pot."

"It has no harmful effects! Honest!"

"It’s a drug and drugs are bad," Derek replies.

"You sound like a middle school teacher."

"Shut up," he grumbles.

They pull up outside Stiles’ house and the sight of the sheriff cruiser in the driveway has Stiles tensing. He looks through the closed window up at the dark house. He could risk going through the front door, but if on the odd chance his father isn’t asleep or Stiles wakes him up, he’s going to be a big purple bruise in the morning.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles looks back at Derek and nods. "I’m fine."

"Are you going to go in?"

Stiles nods again and opens the door. "Thanks for the lift."

"No problem," Derek nods, and he watches Stiles open the passenger door and begin to climb out. Like a knee-jerk reaction, he launches out and grabs Stiles by the arm. Mid-move, Stiles stops and looks back at Derek. "Stiles. . ."

"Yes?" Stiles prompts. In that moment, Derek thinks Stiles looks so young. In the soft lights from the yellow streetlamp’s, Stiles looks younger than he ever has before.

Derek shakes his head and lets go. "Nothing. Good night."

"Night."

Stiles climbs out and shuts the door behind him. Derek watches from the car as instead of going to the front door, Stiles rounds the side of the house. He sees, in the misleading darkness, as Stiles hides his skateboard behind a dustbin and begins to climb the side of the house like a spider.

Derek’s eyes widen when Stiles heaves himself up onto a porch at the back of the house, a small, colourless hand waving for a moment before it disappears.

Derek waits a minute before he starts up the car and drives away.

 

Stiles opens his eyes to a blinding light. He groans and pulls the pillow up and over his head to block out the glaring sun that shines through his open curtains. He always forgets to pull them closed, and always pays the price when the morning winter sun rouses him from his sleep.

After a few minutes of laying there, Stiles knows he’s not going to get back to sleep and sheds the idea of believing so. He tosses the pillow across the room, sits up and climbs out with a vocal whine. Clasping his watch around his wrist, Stiles see’s that it’s just gone seven in the morning. Knowing his father always leaves the station for six-thirty every morning, so he figures it safe to venture from the protection of his bedroom.

Downstairs, the coffee machines brews as he puts bread in the toaster. He turns up the radio and Little Richard’s _Long Tall Sally_ blares loudly in his small kitchen. The dirty soles of his Converse squeak against the polished floor as he dances and moves about, singing the lyrics at the top of his lungs. He mimes playing the guitar, swinging his head back and forth so his limp hair bounces on his head.

The ringing of the telephone has him jumping in surprise. He skids across the room and answers the phone on the wall.

"Hello."

"Stiles? It’s Cora."

"Hey!" He reaches across the room, stretching the phones wire and turns down the radio some. "Sorry. Everything alright?"

"It’s fine. Just calling to tell you Laura’s coming back today. She just called from the train station in Sacramento!"

"No way," Stiles gapes. "I have a shift at the record store this morning but I can be over just after four. What time is she getting home?"

"She’s planning around noon, but it’s Laura, so she’ll be home around two or three."

"Perfect. Tell uncle Peter I’m cooking again. You got stuff for chicken kebabs?"

"Yeah, we have stuff," Cora replies. "Derek’s pissed at me by the way."

"Why?"

"He said I smelt like you, which means he knows I smoked last night."

Stiles barks a laugh. "He said you smell like _me?_ Shit, sorry, Cora. He drove me home last night and said I smelled like 'marijuana'. Honestly, he is the only person I know who uses that name for it."

"Derek is very proper."

"Don’t we know," Stiles chuckles. "Sorry for getting you caught. What did Peter say?"

"He didn’t say anything to Peter, but I know Peter knows already. He hasn’t said anything - he can’t, he’s smoked your stuff too!"

"Good ol’ uncle Peter," Stiles laughs. "Alright. I’ve got to go because I’m burning my toast. See you tonight, yeah?"

"See you then."

He shoves the phone back on the receiver and leaps across the room to retrieve his half-burnt toast. He ditches the ruined breakfast and downs a cup of burning hot coffee instead.

He gets to the store fifteen minutes early and finds Isaac leaning with his forehead face-down on the counter.

"Rough night?" Stiles mocks as he walks in.

Isaac lifts his head with a groan. "There’s some sale records to be put out and I need numbers of the stock we have left. I’ll be in the back room all day."

Stiles laughs as Isaac drags his upper body off the counter and practically stumbles into the backroom. Stiles stuffs his bag underneath the counter, along with his skateboard, and sets about getting the numbers sheets ready for stock count.

The morning passes quickly, and Isaac slinks back onto the shop floor at about noon. He looks like absolute crap: eyes puffy, skin pale and tinted an off green. He glares at Stiles, who’s by the Rock records, tallying the stock, as he stumbles out and leans on the counter.

"I can’t believe you’re not even a little hungover," Isaac grumbles, glaring with hard, pathetic eyes. "You drank more than me too. And smoked more!"

"You’re just a lightweight," Stiles chuckles.

"Fuck you," Isaac snaps, but his words hold the ferocity of a new-born kitten. He rubs his temples with a sad pout. "My head really hurts."

"You’re so pathetic."

"You’re such an ass," Isaac glares. "I hate you."

"Why?" Stiles asks, flailing his arms and almost dropping his pencil and papers. "I’m lovely!"

"I’m going to fire you."

"You’re not," Stiles grins. "I’m your best employee."

"Don’t flatter yourself," Isaac grumbles, and then he’s pushing himself upright from where he’d slumped against the counter once again. "I’m going back for a nap. Don’t break anything."

"I will," Stiles shouts, and cackles laughter when Isaac flips him off over his shoulder.

When his shift is over, at four o’clock, Stiles leaves Isaac to finish the last few hours before the shop closes and quickly skates towards the Hale house on the other side of town. When he reaches the rim of the preserve, Stiles picks up his board and walks the rest of the way, his shoes getting caked in mud and dirt from the damp air.

By the time he reaches the Hale house, his hair and clothes are damp and his shoes are soaked through, but he’s too excited to see Laura again that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know - he doesn’t need to. The Hale house, because of Cora and Laura, is like his second home. He rasps his knuckles against the door as he walks in and shouts, "Honey, I’m home!"

He barely has time to put down his skateboard before Laura comes running out, screaming and shrieking, into the hallway and barreling into him. He’s almost knocked off his feet, brown hair finding its way into his mouth as he gasps in shock. Laura traps him in a bear hug, her arms enveloping him and squeezing him right.

"Stiles!" She squeals loudly in his ear. "My baby! It’s so good to see you!"

"Hey, Laur," he grins into her wild dark hair. "I can’t believe you’re finally home."

She pulls back and holds him by his shoulders. Her smile is soft and almost motherly. "Oh, man. Have I fucking missed you!"

Stiles chuckles, feeling his cheeks glow slightly. "I’ve missed you too."

"We need to get on with dinner," she says, letting him go and beginning to walk to the kitchen. "Hugging you is like hugging a bag of bones."

"Thanks," Stiles deadpans as he toes off his shoes and sheds his sopping jacket before he follows Laura through the house - or more specifically, the mansion. The Hale house is ridiculously huge. So huge it doesn’t fit in the small-feel of Beacon Hills. The size of the home could hold half of the towns population with it’s huge rooms and large acres of land.

"I’m not kidding. You’ve lost weight since I saw you last," Laura shouts from ahead.

Stiles loves the Hale house most for this huge, spacious kitchen that looks like something out of a Dream Home magazine.

"Well, you look great, Laura," Stiles muses, grinning. "Thank you for returning the much needed compliments."

Laura rolls her eyes and ruffles his hair.

"Where’s Cora?"

"She’s getting a lift back with Derek. She was hanging with Erica while the guys had baseball practice," Laura tells him as she drops down at the island bar.

"Derek has baseball practice today?" Stiles frowns. "But it’s Saturday?"

"Their season is coming up. He barely said 'hi' to me today before he fucked off and went," Laura shrugs, picking her nails.

Stiles makes a grunting noise in the back of his throat in reply and moves towards the fridge to get a drink. "You thirsty?" He asks Laura.

The girl laughs. "This is my kitchen, Stilinski."

"I spend more time in it," Stiles replies. "Now do you want something or not?"

"Coffee. Two sugars, no milk."

"I wouldn’t have put milk in it anyway," Stiles says, already getting a pot brewing. "Coffee was made to have no milk. Those who have milk with it are spineless."

Laura barks a laugh that echoes throughout the large room. "So harsh."

"But so true," Stiles muses, pouring two cups and sliding one across to Laura. He leans on the other side of the bar, sipping his burning hot beverage.

When Cora, Derek and Peter get home, they move into the living room where they reconnect with Laura and talk about New York. It’s almost unheard of in Beacon Hills to have someone make as big a move as Laura. The town is barely big enough to be considered a total population, and as everyone knows literally _everything_ about everyone, it’s unusual to hear about someone moving away for bigger things like college or jobs. _We’re town people_ , Stiles always says, _we’re not meant for the city._ But Laura proved them wrong - or at least, she proved different when she packed her bags and moved to New York to attend college and study to be a lawyer just like Talia Hale was.

Stiles listens with all ears as Laura talks about traffic, about busy sidewalks and streets lined with dozens of coffee shops and cafes. He listens about this whole new world, about this whole different life only on the other side of the country. He’s mesmerised by the description of huge apartment buildings, of street parties and university tales.

It fuels Stiles’ childhood dream of leaving, but also makes him feel impossibly small. Could he survive? Could he adapt to live in a world like that?

After a few hours, Stiles excuses himself into the kitchen to make himself a drink and get started on dinner. He hears someone follow him in and finds Derek waiting on the other side of the bar, watching him.

"Okay, what did I do?" Stiles asks.

Derek frowns. "What do you mean?"

"All night you’ve looked like you want to rip my head off."

"Sorry," he apologises, "that’s just how my face works."

The remark is so unexpected Stiles snorts aloud, almost choking on it as he tries and fails to swallow it back.

"Jesus," he coughs, trying to recollect himself. He looks up to see Derek smirking slightly, and feels his shoulder lose their tension slightly. He doesn’t know when the relationship between him and Derek changed, or when the feelings Stiles felt towards the older boy changed from neighbourly friends to something deeper, something more raw and open and _scary_.

Stiles has no idea what he feels towards Derek, but he isn’t sure how he feels about it.

Ignoring the feelings in his stomach that definitely _aren’t_ hunger pains, Stiles beings to make them all dinner. He doesn’t know when Derek leaves, but soon Laura is helping him cut up potatoes for the salad and Cora is sitting at the bar, slurping soda through a straw and discussing Mr Harris’s classroom antics.

 

Later that evening, Derek insists on driving Stiles home because its late, dark and cold and he’s only got 'a stupid jacket and skateboard'. Stiles resisted the urge and swallowed down his pride, climbing into the chilled Camaro car. He places his skateboard flat in the footwell and slumps back in the worn leather, watching the dark scenery pass by in dark flashes.

"Thank you," Derek suddenly says, and Stiles’ head whips around to face him. The older teen is looking out onto the road, but Stiles knows Derek is aware he’s watching him. "For coming tonight. Thank you."

"Uh, no problem?" Stiles frowns. "I didn’t. . . Laura helped with dinner too, so—"

"No, I meant. . . don’t worry," he sounds exasperated, almost frustrated, like he can’t get the right words out. "Just. . . thank you. Tonight was good."

Stiles smiles. "Yeah, it was. I forgot how fun Laura is. College semesters are awesome, we don’t break up for another two weeks and she’s still got a month off!"

"You still have another year and a half of high school," Derek says.

Stiles snorts. "Jesus, Derek, spit on my parade why don’t you. I know I have ages left."

Derek rolls his eyes and the car falls into a comfortable silence.

Soon Derek is turning down Stiles’ street and he has his belt unbuckled in time for when Derek parks the car outside his house.

"Thanks for the ride," Stiles smiles, opening the door. "Tell Cora that Harris’ assignment is due Monday, not Tuesday, so she needs to get it done this weekend or he’ll fail her for the whole semester."

Derek nods. "I will. Night, Stiles."

Stiles flashes a mock-salute before climbing out and making his way into the house.

Closing the front door, Stiles doesn’t kick off his shoes or takes off his jacket. He looks at the glowing lights and instantly knows: his father is home.

Peering into the living room, he knows his father isn’t there. As he creeps into the kitchen with silent steps, his heart pounds so fast he can feel it in his throat.

John Stilinski sits at the dining table. For once, he doesn’t have files and police paperwork spewed around him, but instead, the only thing on the table is a open, half-empty bottle of whiskey. His father doesn’t even have a glass out. He’s drinking straight from the bottle.

"It’s the anniversary soon, you know," his father greets, voice slurring. Stiles doesn’t need to hear his heavy, thick voice to know he’s past drunk. He can tell by his father’s eyes.

"I know," he whispers, because _of course_ he knows. The date is implanted into Stiles’ brain more than the date of Christmas.

"It’s going to be eight years," John goes on, acting as if Stiles hadn’t spoken. "Eight long, painful years without her."

"I know," Stiles repeats, his words small and quiet, barely a murmur.

"I wonder what she’d think, if she was here today."

"I don’t know."

Stiles doesn’t like where this is going. Every time his mother is brought up, sober or drunk, his father lashes out.

"Where were you this evening?"

"The Hales. Laura’s home, so I went over for dinner." For once, Stiles isn’t lying.

His father hums, disbelieving. "I wish we did that."

"Did. . . did what?"

"Dinner’s, spent time together. Acted like a family."

Stiles swallows thickly. "Yeah," he says weakly.

His father is silent for a long time, his eyes on the whiskey bottle on the table.

"We could be a family," he eventually says.

"We could."

"But we’re not," John’s tone turns sinister, dark and cold. A shiver threatens to run down Stiles’ spine. He can feel the fight coming, "because you’re always out, causing trouble, picking fights. I wanted us to be a family, but then you had to go and kill your mother—"

"Shut up."

The words pour from his mouth like word vomit. He can’t stop them as they come out quickly and abruptly, interrupting his already brewing father.

John’s eyes snap up so suddenly and lock on Stiles’ with the hunger of a predator finally finding it’s prey.

"I didn’t kill her," Stiles whispers.

John stares at him with a gaze so cold it freezes Stiles’ insides. "You did, and you’re killing me now."

"No," Stiles shakes his head.

"You’re a little shit. You ruined your mothers life. I work day and night to keep this roof over your head and you’re never _here_ —"

"Because you’re a drunken waste of space!"

"And you’re ungrateful. You’re a stupid, little boy who—"

"Stop it."

"—doesn’t deserve this home and my money and—"

"I earn my own money."

His father pauses, staring him dead in the eye as he rises from his chair. Holding onto the neck of the whiskey bottle, he begins to round the table.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Enjoy what?"

"Making her miserable? Making me miserable?"

"No."

"Then why won’t you _go away?_ "

"Dad—"

Stiles is cut off by a bottle striking him. He falls down, hard and crumbling like a house of cards. His face explodes with white hot pain, his vision bleeding black for a moment as the glass bottle smashes against his head. He barely has time to roll onto his back before a something is clenching in his collar, hauling him up. A fist collides with his cheek, his eyes, his mouth. He barely has time to let out a cry before another strike hits. He’s disorientated and throbbing by the time the hand on his jacket lets go and he collapses on the cold kitchen floor, gasping for breath.

"Maybe next time you’ll think twice about making a fool out of me," he hears his father say above him, but he can’t focus on anything other than the pain making his whole body feel like fire. His face is _burning_. He can feel the blood from the glass running down his face and dripping onto the floor.

He manages to find the strength in himself to push himself so he’s sitting, scooting back and leaning against the wall. He looks up at the man who calls himself his father. He can taste the copper in his mouth and spits a bloody wad on the floor, not breaking the stare between the two of them.

"Go fuck yourself," he snarls. There’s blood dripping down his face, blood on his lips and he can feel his eye beginning to swell. He doesn’t know where the confidence to anger his father further is coming from, but he can’t stop himself.

His father’s upper lip curls back like an angry dog.

"Clean this mess up," he replies, a bite to his words that clearly states _or else_.

Stiles doesn’t want to know what _else_ there could be.

He watches his father walk out, grabbing another bottle of whiskey from the glass cabinet before the sound of his heavy, thundering footsteps retreat upstairs.

Stiles slumps bonelessly against the wall and cries until his chest hurts as bad as his face.

 

Derek has enjoyed himself. The evening was successful. He'd come home to find Laura back, healthy and in the flesh, beaming and loud and rude as she always is. Cora had been smiling, Peter had been home and the atmosphere had been light.

And most of all, Stiles had been there. Stiles had been there and he was smiling too, joking and firing witty comebacks to Laura and Peters as instinctually as breathing.

Stiles spends plenty of time at the house, either with Cora or visiting Laura, but this time felt different. All Derek could think about was how he was grateful Stiles was there, safe and eating a proper meal instead of out selling drugs or at home under the fist of his father.

Derek had witnessed the _real_ Stiles tonight. He'd seen the kids core, the deep down personality that has been covered and masked for years in seek for protection. He didn't see the drug dealer, or the class delinquent, or the kid being pushed and shoved in the hallway. He saw Stiles; witty, free, loud-laughing Stiles. 

If he tried hard enough, he thinks he might be able to be around Stiles and not just imagine an abused child. His mind won't keep coming back to pained winces and bruises every time he’s in sight.

Derek is rounding the dark street corner when he notices the skateboard still sitting in the passenger footwell.

 _Stiles' skateboard_ , his mind supplies.

Without a second thought, he spins the wheel and does a fast and smooth U-turn.

He drives back down the gloomy suburban street, back to the house of horrors. There are lights on inside, and the only other house in the street that has lights on is the neighbour to the right.

He pulls up and parks at the end of the drive. Climbing out, he rounds the car to grab the skateboard from the passenger side and approaches the house. It's silent, the whole street a eerie, soundless like. He climbs the rickety stairs to the porch where the old, rotting wood whines and moans under his weight. He knocks on the door and waits, skateboard tucked under his arm.

When the door opens, Derek says, "You left this—"

He cuts himself off abruptly, arm half extended with the skateboard in hand. His jaw drops, his stomach races with what he sees.

Stiles' face, that only minutes ago had been unblemished and creamy skin smooth, is now a bloody mess. There's a gash on his hairline, making the hair glisten and blood run down the side of his face and into his eye. There's a startling bruise already on his other cheek, his eyes beginning to swell from the outer corner from a small laceration in the tip of his eyebrow. His lip is split and bloody, his chin and t-shirt dotted with spots of violent red.

"Stiles. . ." He starts, but he has no idea _what_ to say. He's seeing something he will never be able to un-see, to accept or ignore.

Stiles eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, are hard and cold. He looks fully detached, nothing like the teen Derek had spoken to and witnessed in his home less than half an hour ago. His eyes flick down to the board extended towards him and he snatched it quickly.

"Thanks," he murmurs, voice a fragile, wavering rasp, before he's stepping back and slamming the door shut.

Derek doesn't move from the front door step. He stares, unseeing, at the dirty front door panes. All he can see is Stiles. He can see blood, bruises and abused skin. He can see his eyes, raw and vulnerable and terrified. Of his father or Derek seeing it, he doesn't know but he also doesn't _care_. He feels like he's been punched in the chest. He's winded, unable to breathe properly.

Derek looks to the side and sees the neighbour in the house next door standing out front, watching.

With a sickening drop of his stomach, Derek finally understands how Stiles and Isaac are different.

 

_— tbc._


	4. going wherever the wind blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the comments and support you have given this story so far. you guys are the best <3

****Stiles isn’t in school on Monday. Derek asks Isaac if he’s working at the shop, but he says Stiles isn’t due in until the afternoon. The answer worries Derek, because unlike everyone else in Beacon Hills High, Derek had _seen_ it. He’d seen Stiles a few days before, and the memory brings no comfort at all to Stiles’ absence.

Derek goes through the entire school day with a half-focused mind. He drives home the moment he’s let out of class, not even waiting for Cora before he’s skidding out of the parking lot. He speeds through town, cutting up other drivers and ignoring the blares of horns he leaves in his wake. As soon as he gets in, he’s running into the kitchen and dialling the Stilinski house number. He cradles the phone to his ear and waits.

It rings, and rings, and rings.

There is no answer.

Derek rings once more, but there’s no answer again. He mentally wills Stiles to pick up when he dials the number for the fifth time.

He doesn’t know if Stiles picks up, because the phone is snatched away from his ear and out of his ear so suddenly. He spins around in time to see Peter slam the phone down on the receiver.

"You planning on paying the phone bill this month?"

Derek’s eyes flick between Peter and the phone, his glare so hot it could create flames. "I was phoning Stiles."

"I don’t think he’s home. Take the hint, Derek, he wasn’t going to answer."

"He could’ve—"

"After the sixth call?" Peter narrows his eyes, crossing his arms like an angry mom. Any other time, Derek would have laughed.

"It’s important," Derek insists, and even he can detect the desperation in his voice.

He can’t help but keep thinking, keep _panicking_ , that if Stiles didn’t answer, does that mean he’s not home or that he _can’t_ answer? What if he’s hurt? - _more_ than when he was on Saturday. What if John has kicked him out, beaten and battered, and Stiles is hiding somewhere?

If he’s not home, where is he?

"Derek," Peter cuts through his thoughts like a knife through a block of warm butter, "What’s going on?"

"Nothing."

"You’ve always been a bad liar," Peter replies. His tone, originally annoyed, has turned softer, gentler. "Derek. Why do you need to speak to Stiles so bad?"

It occurs to Derek then: does Peter know too? Ever since he discovered Stiles not-so-secret secret, he’s beginning to uncover that more people than he expected also know.

"Something’s happened," Derek admits, and something must be clear in his face because as soon as the words are out, Peter is sighing and leading him towards the dining table. He shoves Derek into a chair and turns off the coffee machine, muttering heatedly under his breath.

"Was he at school today?" Peter asks, and Derek’s head snaps up from where it was inclined down, eyes on the table.

"You. . . what?"

"Stiles. Was he at school today, or was that why you were ringing him?"

"No, he wasn’t. I. . . that was one of the reasons I was ringing," Derek replies, stammering. "So you know then?"

"I have my suspicions," Peter shrugs one shoulder slightly, his back to Derek and the room. He turns a moment later, placing two mugs on the table and taking the seat opposite Derek. "Did something happen over the weekend?"

"Yes, I think. . . his father—"

"That _fucking—_ " Peter curses, his jaw so clenched Derek can practically _hear_ his teeth grinding together. Peter’s head is to the side and he’s looking into nothing, but the anger in his eyes is as cold as ice. He looks ready to murder, his fist curled against his mouth. "That man. . ."

"Peter," Derek leans forward, "do you know what I’m talking about?"

"Of course I fucking know what you’re talking about," Peter snaps. " _Everyone_ will know what you’re talking about."

"Yeah, I’m starting to realise that," Derek admits with a sinking stomach. Soon enough, the same frustration and anger climbs up his spine like a spider and he can’t hold it back. "You knew, and like everyone else, you have _done nothing!_ "

Peter’s eyes widen. "Derek—"

"If you know what John is doing then—"

"I don’t _know_ , Derek. No one really _knows_ what John does."

"But you suspect—"

"Suspecting is a lot different to knowing, Derek," Peter interrupts again, and something in his tone and his face kills the words of Derek’s tongue. "Listen to me, kid. You do not want to go around pointing fingers in a town like this, with a Sheriff like that."

"Peter—"

"No, listen to me. You’ll be surprised how many daddies beat the shit out of their sons, how many of them slap around their daughters. Stiles is not the only unfortunate soul who’s got shit parents. It sucks, but it’s true. Do you think Jackson Whittemore’s dad is a golden angel? Hell fucking no. That monster of a man hits Jackson like an alarm clock, but you don’t see anyone whining about that?"

"It’s different. A slap here and there when Jackson’s being a dick is nothing. John _beats_ Stiles for no reason—"

"No reason?" Peter laughs slightly. "Derek, Stiles doesn’t deserve what he gets but do you really think he’s some innocent fly? He sells weed, Derek. Stiles gets in more trouble at school than Laura did and I’ll bet my life in Hell that Stiles doesn’t go down against his father without a fight. Now, this doesn’t make what is happening right, but it just shows that you do not know everything."

"It’s _Stiles_ , Peter," Derek almost growls. "Have you heard what you’re saying? He was here two nights ago and now you’re saying he deserves—"

"You are twisting my words, boy. I did not say Stiles deserves it, and if I could, I would kill that shit man without a second thought for what he does to Stiles. But, I can’t, just like you can’t do anything until Stiles comes to you."

Derek swallows thickly. "Does Laura know?"

"I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised."

"What about Cora?"

Peter shrugs. "Try Stiles again if you want, Laura will be home soon."

And with that, Peter ups and leaves the kitchen.

 

Derek leaves the house at four that afternoon, knowing Stiles will be well into his shift at the store by now. He drives through the town, his pounding heart loud in his ears. He parks across the street from the store, finding a spot amongst the other cars. The town is alive with people and shoppers, screaming children being dragged from school to buy food and elderlies out in pairs. Derek ignores them all as he dashes across the road and into the store.

Sure enough, Stiles is behind the counter. He has a small paperback book in his hand, half-turned away from the store as he’s engrossed in the yellow-tinted pages. He doesn’t look up when the bell chimes, and Derek freezes in the doorway, holding the door open, as if he was expecting Stiles to react to it.

After letting gusts of cold air into the store, Derek moves further in and allows the door to close behind him. A radio is on in the corner behind the desk, a Lionel Richie song is playing softly throughout the store floor.

Derek doesn’t know what he does - perhaps it’s the fact that he’s standing in the middle of the store for a whole two minutes, staring at Stiles like a hawk - because a moment later, Stiles’ head lifts and their eyes meet.

He looks no better than he did Saturday night. The cuts are scabbed and while the blood is gone, they still look raw and nasty. His bruises have gone black and purple, stark and harsh against his washed out skin. He doesn’t look like he’s slept for days, his large eyes framed with sunken circles. He looks surprised to see Derek standing there, but also a hint of annoyance seeps into his hazel eyes. Derek didn’t expect any different, if he’s totally honest with himself. He isn’t sure what he’s planning on getting out of this surprise visit, he just needed to _see_ Stiles and that he as alright. That he was _alive_.

"Uh, hi," he greets. He feels his cheeks flush with belated embarrassment.

Stiles’ expression becomes blank. He looks almost deadly with the busted up face. It looks a mess and Derek thinks it must be so sore. "What do you want?"

"Cora was looking for you today," Derek lies. He doesn’t want to admit that it was _him_ looking desperately for the missing teen today, or that he rushed home to call his house six times.

"Is that so," Stiles muses. He looks completely unconcerned that 'Cora' was worrying about him.

"Well," Derek presses. "Where were you?"

He shrugs with one, stiff shoulder. "I didn’t want come in."

"But where were you?" Derek repeats, emphasising his words with need.

Stiles’ hard eyes bore into him. Derek knows he’s acting out of character, that it’s peculiar for Derek Hale, Captain Brooding and Glaring, to be concerned about Stiles’ whereabouts, but he just can’t feign it anymore. He was worried out of his mind.

"Why do you care?"

The question stumps him.

"I. . . wasn’t," he replies weakly. "Cora was worried. She cares."

Stiles nods, lips curled up in a smug, non-believing kind of smile that makes Derek want to hang his head in self-exasperation. "Okay."

Stiles turns away, leaning back against the cabinet and continues reading a book. At the sideways angle, Derek can see every shade of purple and black and blue in the bruises on his skin, the sore redness of the gash on his hairline.

"Those bruises. . ." he starts, trailing off until Stiles looks at him. He motions to the younger boys face, "Your old man do that to you?"

It happens like a fleeting glance. Stiles’ whole face takes on a new mask. He stiffens like he’s been shocked, his face turned from hard to _scared_. And then it’s gone, a split second of realisation, then replaced by the cold exterior Stiles is wearing to cover the madness in his father.

"If you’re not going to buy something, then you need to leave," Stiles practically snaps, lips tight.

Derek nods. "Fine."

He spins around and grabs the closest thing to him, which turns out to be a record, and slams it down on the counter.

Stiles stares at him for a moment with a raised eyebrow before he tosses his book down and picks up the record to punch in the bar-code into the register. He snorts a laugh suddenly, "Didn’t know you were a Madonna fan."

Derek frowns and looks down, finally seeing the item he’d picked up: Madonna’s new album _Like a Virgin_. Derek closes his eyes in belated embarrassment and regret. Of all the records, he thinks.

"Not the taste I imagined for you, pal."

"Shut up," Derek grumbles, but it holds no heat. He shakes his head, "Come for dinner tonight. Cora and Laura will want to see you again."

"They saw me Saturday," Stiles murmurs, his voice weak as if he wants to still be angry, but has lost the fight in him.

"Well, Cora was worried and she wants to see you again," Derek replies firmly. "So, tonight come over for dinner."

Stiles stares at him. He doesn’t reply, but his face is a mix of emotions. But he doesn’t look _angry_ anymore.

"Tonight," Derek says again.

He leaves without the record, but a feeling in his stomach that doesn’t sit right.

The evening comes and goes, and Stiles doesn’t turn up.

 

Stiles is out with Ennis all of Monday morning instead of going to school. He does the rounds around Maryland, helps Deucalion pack the grams and collects the deliveries for Beacon Hills that night. His body aches and twinges with jolts of pain when he moves too sharply, but like every other time he’s used as a personal punching bag, he ignores it and continues.

He goes straight from Deucalion’s to work, not even tempting to go home. He needed to give his father some space, some time to cool down without Stiles’ interference or presence.

Isaac is at the shop when he gets there, spends five minutes talking to Stiles as if he can’t see the bruises on his face and the stiffness in his movements (like he always does) before he’s dashing off with a good-bye call about meeting Erica.

Stiles was surprised when Derek turned up, and was more surprised when the older teen practically leaked anxiety and worry as he flustered about Cora missing him at school today. Stiles knows it was a lie - Cora isn’t so needy as to miss him after one day. Cora will think he was bunking, or spending time with Ennis - which is exactly what he was doing, but she doesn’t know the reason _why_. Stiles has gathered by now that Cora must have guessed what is going on, but she’s never been one for gooey feelings and won’t ask Stiles anything more personal than his shoe size, so they’ve never fully discussed it.

Stiles has been noticing Derek more and more. The teen is suddenly always there, always at Stiles' side and trying to be nice, or supportive, or friendly when he's never been anything of the sort in the past, even despite Stiles' friendship with Cora and Laura. Stiles doesn’t quite understand what Derek’s aim is, or what he’s trying to approve or achieve, but Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about it. Derek’s always been so cold towards him, so disapproving of Stiles' bare existence that Stiles was sure the guy hated him with all of his being.

But, then he keeps turning up and trying to invite him to dinners, or calling his house phone, or saying that 'Cora' is worried. Stiles wants to scoff: Derek is officially the worst liar.

Isaac comes in for the evening shift, to close up and count the till, and the first thing he says is, "Derek missed you at school today."

Stiles sighs, shaking his head as he aggressively shoves a CD into the rack. "What is that guys problem?"

"Is it so bad he might actually give a shit?"

"It’s Beacon Hills. No one ever gives a shit about anyone."

"That’s cold, man," Isaac murmurs. He’s standing by the till, sorting the change and counting it to make sure the numbers add up. Stiles doesn’t think Isaac believes he’d steal anything, but it’s precaution and the old man that owns the store and runs it while they’re at school during the day demands that Isaac does it. "He kept asking if I knew where you were, when you’d be in here."

"Its fucking weird," Stiles says. "I don’t like it."

"You don’t like people giving a shit about you?"

Stiles makes his way over to the counter, grumbling, "Not when they don’t have a reason."

"Maybe he does have a reason," Isaac replies. He looks up from the cash register draw, "You ever asked?"

Stiles looks at him before looking away. Shamefully, he hasn’t thought to ask Derek if he has a reason for suddenly deciding to give a shit about Stiles’ wellbeing.

"All right," Isaac slams the rickety draw shut. "That’s done. Fancy a joint before lock up?"

"No need to ask."

They make their way to the back into the staff room. Stiles opens the fire escape door so they don’t completely stink out the room before dropping down on the old, sagging couch beside Isaac.

Stiles pulls out the rolled joint and lights it, taking a few drags before handing it to Isaac.

"What do you think Derek’s problem is with me?" He asks, because he really can’t get it off his mind.

Isaac exhales slowly. "He knows about your dad."

Stiles turns his head to look at the blonde beside him.

"Don’t ask how, you’re not that thick," Isaac goes on, passing him the joint again. He inclines his head backwards and rests it against the sofa. "You can’t blame a guy for being concerned. I mean, look at you."

"What’s wrong with me?"

Isaac lifts his head and looks at him like he’s grown a second nose. "Are you kidding me right now? Stiles, your face is one massive purple bruise. You’re skinny as a fucking twig, you look like you’re ill enough to drop dead at any moment and we both know you weren’t at school today because you were dealing. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I turned up today for you to ask if you could sleep in here tonight on the couch instead of going home."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but closes it a moment later when he realises he has nothing to argue. He can’t remember the last time he ate something: probably the meal he cooked at the Hales’ the Friday before.

"I. . ." he starts, but the word falls flat on his tongue. "It’s not that bad."

"You’re face is beaten to a pulp, Stiles. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen you worse," Isaac admits, and his voice has taken on a softer tone, sympathetic and brotherly. "You can’t blame Derek for being worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you and you’re the biggest pain in my ass!"

"Thanks, man," Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling slightly. He stubs out the dead joint end and sighs. "You really think he’s doing all of this because he cares?"

"More people care about you than you think, Stiles," Isaac replies. "Just because your old man doesn’t give a shit, doesn’t mean no one else does."

"I don’t need people to give a shit," Stiles feigns. "I’m fine."

"Sure you are."

"Why does everyone make it such a big deal?" Stiles bursts. "I’m not the only one in this fucking town who’s old man beats them? Why am I so damn special?"

"You’re right. You’re not the only one. Jackson’s dad does, Matt’s dad does. But Stiles, no one’s old man beats them like yours does, and he’s the fucking sheriff!"

"That doesn’t—"

"It means a big damn thing, Stiles. He’s meant to be the town protector and that shit, and yet he can’t even protect and look after his son!"

" _Zamknij się kurwa!_ (Shut the fuck up!)," Stiles snaps, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. His headache is back, the lack of sleep, food and aches in his body convulsing into one giant throb.

There’s a long, pregnant pause, and then Isaac murmurs, "I’m sorry. I. . . it’s hard, but think how hard it is to watch."

Stiles doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know how. He hates talking about this, because for so long he has accepted his fathers rage and actions, and then people come along with their worries and make it sound so _bad_.

"I just wish people would leave it alone. I’m fine, why isn’t that good enough?"

"Because you’re not fine."

Stiles doesn’t reply to that. Him and Isaac do last checks of the store, both mellowed out by the joint, before Stiles grabs his skateboard and bag and they lock up.

"I’m meeting Erica and Boyd tomorrow night at the youth centre. Probably gonna get some drinks, hang out for the evening. You should come," Isaac says as he pockets his keys. The night is cold and still, a bitterly biting chill in the air.

"Are you only inviting me so I bring you guys some weed?"

Isaac grins. "You know us so well. I’m joking, man, we want you there, drugs or no drugs."

"All right," Stiles rolls his eyes. "But I’ll still bring some."

"Atta boy," Isaac winks, stepping back. "I’ll see you in school tomorrow, yeah?"

Stiles hums. "Maybe."

"Definitely. You wanna get out of this town, you gotta graduate."

"Maybe I don’t want to get out of this town," Stiles calls back. They’re far away from each other now that they have to shout, their voices echoing in the empty street.

"You’re too smart to stick around!" Isaac shouts. "Stay in school, you fucking idiot!"

Stiles cackles a laugh and finally turns around to walk straight. He puts his board on the ground and rolls with one foot before hoping on and skating down the street.

He’s halfway home when he hears someone shout, "Oi, Stilinski!"

Skidding to a stop, he looks over his shoulder to see someone running across the street to him. When the weak glow of the streetlight uncovers the shadows of his face, Stiles recognises him as Matt.

"Hey," Stiles replies, "What do you want?"

"Are you dealing tonight?" Matt asks, panting out of breath.

"Not officially," Stiles answers slowly. "Why, what do you want?"

"Just some doobies."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You want some joints?"

Matt nods. "As many as you’ve got."

"You can’t afford as many as I’ve got. How much you paying?"

"I got twenty bucks."

"You can have five grams or four rolled."

"What the fuck?" Matt explodes, cheeks glowing red. "Only that for twenty bucks?"

"It’s ten at night, man. I’m not dealing right now, I can just as easily tell you to get fucked."

"What about mates-rates?"

"We’re not mates. Now, grams or joint? If neither, get the fuck away from me so I can go home."

Matt lets out a huffy breath. He scrubs a hand down his face and finally replies, "Rolled. Four rolled."

Stiles nods and takes some out of his backpack. He hands them over when Matt hands him a crumpled twenty dollar bill.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Stiles murmurs, pocketing the bill.

"Thanks, man. Thank you. I knew I could count on you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got your weed now fuck off."

Matt dashes off like a child and Stiles begins again to skate home. Halfway there, he becomes aware of the ache in his stomach, the hunger pains gnawing in his abdomen. It’s so consuming he’s almost breathless from it.

He takes a right instead of a left, going towards the 24 hour restaurant close to the youth centre. Buddies is a 24 hour open cafe that sells anything from sausage sandwiches to Spaghetti Bolognese at anytime of the day, morning and night. It’s been open for as long as Stiles can remember, and he was first shown it by his mother when he was young.

When he gets there, he shrugs his headphones off so they sit around his neck. The cafe has only two people in it sitting in the corner. They smile at Stiles, and he recognises their faces from school.

Carol, a plump woman with thick, short cut blonde hair, stands behind the counter.

She beams when she looks up and see’s him. "Stiles! Kiddo, it’s been so long!"

"I was here last week, Carol."

"I’ve been on holiday, visiting family in Florida," she replies, leaning forward on the counter. "How have you been, honey? You’re face is a bit of a mess."

"I’m fine, just kids at school. You should see the other guy."

Carol laughs, "Uh huh. Boys will be boys, ay? Well, what can I get you, sugar? You look like you need fattening up."

"Just a portion of curly fries. To go too, please."

"That all? Are you sure?"

Stiles nods. "Please."

"All right, sweetie. That’ll be two bucks."

Stiles hands over some quarters and Carol puts them in a register, flashing him a wink before she goes to get his food. Stiles flops down on the stool, resting his head on his crossed arms. He’s so tired, so achy and fed up. He feels like all he ever speaks to people about now is his father or the mess he looks.

He doesn’t look that bad, does he?

He’s on the brink of sleep when a hand touches his shoulder. He jerks up, almost falling off the stool. Carol’s large eyes are kind and worried.

"Hey, you going to be okay to get home?"

Stiles nods but doesn’t speak.

Carol looks even more worried. "You don’t look so good, kiddo. Go straight home, yeah? Drink some water, get some sleep and eat something else in the morning. You’re old man home tomorrow?"

Stiles nods again - that was why he was planning on going to Deucalion’s again. The bruises are still too prominent on his face to risk going to school, but staying home isn’t an option incase his father is there with his hair-trigger temper.

Carol smiles softly, "Get home safe, sweetie. Okay? Don’t give me more reasons to worry about you."

"I’m fine," Stiles argues.

"Of course you are," she smiles and strokes a hand over his hair, pushing the limp strands off his forehead where they’ve flopped down. "Just like you’re mother, ay? Tough as old boots."

Stiles smiles, nodding and gets up. "Thanks, Carol. See you soon, yeah?"

"I’ll be here, sugar."

Stiles grabs the paper bag and his board, "Don’t work too hard."

Carol barks a laugh that rings in Stiles’ ears as he walks out. He stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth as he puts his board down and rolls on it down the sidewalk.

By the time he makes it home, he’s eaten half the fries and the headache in his head is throbbing so hard he feels like his forehead is going to explode. He stumbles through the front door, completely oblivious to the noise he’s making. He feels like shit, and his head is pounding so hard he can’t think of ways to keep the noise down. He just needs to lay down, and barely makes it to the couch before he feels his bones turning to stone.

 

In the morning, John Stilinski comes downstairs at seven o'clock, planning to spend his day off on the sofa after he runs some morning errands, when he finds his son sleeping on the couch. Curled up like a child, John has a moment of pain in his chest because his son looks so _small_ , so fragile. The bruises done by John's busted knuckles are still visible on his colourless skin. He's always hated his son for his similar features that he shared with Claudia, so clear and duplicated that every time he looks at his sons large whiskey eyes he's flash-backed to those awful days in the hospital when medicine and doctors did nothing to save his wife. He hates himself for what he does to his son, but he also hates his son for being so much like the woman that was taken away from them.

He grabs the blanket from the back of the arm chair and drapes it over the small form of his sleeping son.

 

_— tbc._


	5. we all got parts need fixing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo, fun fact guys... I posted the wrong chapter and gave away a lovely spoiler. I think that sums up how well this week is going to be honest. My laptop is also broken so doing all of this by phone is not fun, thank you for those who commented about the missing scenes because I had NO idea I'd done that. 
> 
> Apologises again <3

****The next time Derek see’s Stiles, he watches. He’s never been a huge observer, always aloud things to go over his head unless they entirely involve him. But now, he feels the need to see Stiles, to see if he’s okay and if he’s sporting any new evidence that his sack-of-shit for a father has done something to him.

Derek takes in little details. He takes in the way Stiles walks, and how sometimes it’s different: sometimes it’s stiff, or hesitant, and other times it’s a full bounce and flow. He takes note of the way Stiles breathes, and how sometimes he breathes like he’s got a rope tied tightly around his chest and he can’t get a whole exhale in and out. He watches the changes in Stiles’ face, and how the bruises on his cheeks make his cheeks look far more gaunt and worn down.

But the thing Derek notices most, is Stiles’ eyes. They change all the time. They always look tired, framed with long eyelashes and sunken bruises from sleepless nights, but they change. Sometimes it’s the colour, and how in different lights they look different shades. Sometimes they look like black coffee, and other times they look as light as whiskey or cinnamon. In some rays of sunlight, they even look gold. But the one thing about his eyes that stands out the most, is how haunted they are. Derek can see the pain, the history, the emotional bruises behind his whiskey orbs without even trying anymore. It used to be that Stiles was entirely guarded. It used to be that his face was a mask of happiness and cocky-confidence, but now Derek can see beneath, he can see behind the walls and between the layers of Stiles Stilinski.

He see’s the teenager at the Youth Club the three days later, after already being there for hours with just Erica, Isaac and Boyd, Derek notices the moment the brunette walks into the low lit, flashing club room. Sitting on the couches by the wall, Derek’s eyes follow the skinny teen as he flitters and swerves around the bodies in the room, the flashing, flickering lights making him look like a tripping video.

Stiles skips past them completely, not even looking at them, the music too loud for them to call him over, and he disappears into the shadows of the room.

A hand nudges Derek’s knee and he looks around to meet Isaac’s eyes.

"He’s doing some dealing tonight," he tells Derek, as if he could read his mind. "He’ll probably come over when he’s done."

"Does he know we’re here?"

"Of course. I invited him to come and meet us yesterday."

Derek nods and leans back into the cushions of the chair.

It’s another fifteen minutes before Stiles suddenly appears, walking out of the shadows and coming up to the couches.

"Evening, losers," he greets them. Erica screams in surprise, tipsy from the bottle of Vodka she brought with her. She jumps up from where she’s cuddled into Boyd, leaping onto Stiles and almost knocking him over with the momentum.

He lets out a soft _'oof'._

" _Pierdolić_ (Fuck), Erica. Excited to see me?"

"I just love you," Derek hears Erica say into Stiles’ shoulder. Where they’re sitting, the speakers are slightly muted and the music isn’t so loud they can’t hear each other.

Stiles grins. "I love you too, you drunk idiot."

He deposites Erica down again on Boyd’s lap like someone dumping a clingy child, fist pumping Boyd as Erica makes herself comfortable.

"How much have you got left?" Isaac asks.

"A few more customers," Stiles replies, digging into one of his jacket pockets. "Here."

"Yeeeees!" Erica cheers, clapping her hands vigorously like a child. "You the man, Stiles!"

"I am the fucking man."

Isaac catches the pair of rolled joints Stiles tosses in his direction, smile beaming and glowing. "Thanks, man. D’you want us to save you some?"

"I doubt there will be anything left when I get back," Stiles laughs, shaking his head. "Knock yourselves out. I’ll be back in a bit."

And then he’s gone, disappearing like a fleeting shadow back into the crowds. Isaac lights up one of the joints and the three of them pass it between them while Derek scans the crowd like a possessive father.

He feels a form of protectiveness come over him whenever he see’s Stiles. He feels something one would feel for more of a brother, a kind of deep-rooted _need_ to keep them safe and warm and unharmed. He wants to wrap Stiles in a blanket every time he see’s him, to tell him he doesn’t have to pretend he’s so tough and cold, that there’s nothing wrong with vulnerability. Stiles has taken the opinion the town has of him like a stencil and shaped himself around it.

"Derek, will you shut up?"

He frowns, eyes focusing and turning to look at Erica. "I haven’t said anything?"

"Well, stop thinking so loud!"

Derek rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath and slumping further into the couch cushions.

"C’mon, man, have a puff. It’ll make you feel better," Isaac says.

"No thanks," Derek replies curtly.

Isaac holds the joint out. "You don’t even know if you don’t like it or not."

"I won’t like it," he replies. "Get that thing away from me."

Isaac rolls his eyes and passes it to Erica, who is making childish grabby hands from where she is still perched on Boyd’s lap. It wobbles between her fingers before dropping onto the floor, and Isaac sighs loudly.

"Jesus, how much have you drank?"

Erica looks up from where she’s feeling the floor for the dropped joint and flashes a shit-eating grin. "Not enough."

Derek makes eye contact with Boyd and he can see the other teen exasperating inside.

"So, Derek, are you excited for college?" Erica asks.

Derek shrugs. "I’m excited to get out of this town."

"Oh, don’t be so glum! What’s wrong with this place?"

"Everything. Literally everything."

Erica throws her head back and barks a laugh. She leans down and reaches into her bag to pull out the plastic bottle she refilled with pure vodka. She takes a large gulp, grimaces, and then takes another.

"Erica, you shouldn’t drink that stuff straight," Derek says.

"Yeah, you’re going to be sick before the end of the night," Isaac adds.

"Don’t be so boring," Erica shouts, drinking some more. She holds the bottle out, "Anybody want some?"

"Thank you very much," the bottle is scooped out of Erica’s hand as Stiles steps into their vision and drops down onto the couch next to Isaac.

"Stiles! You’re back!" Erica yelps and Stiles smiles around the neck of the bottle. He takes a long swig, not flinching like Erica has done, and passes the bottle to Isaac.

"Done for the evening, Stiles?" Boyd asks.

Stiles nods. "All done."

"Got any left?"

"Not for the likes of you," Stiles smiles sarcastically. "I gave you guys like two joints earlier, have you smoked them already? Without me?!"

Isaac smiles sheepishly and Stiles rolls his eyes, snatching the bottle back.

"Hey, that’s mine!" Erica says.

Stiles takes an exaggeratedly long drink before he leans over and hands the bottle back.

Erica and Isaac begin to talk about a sale happening in the record shop next week, the rest of them falling into silence.

Derek notices Stiles doodling on his hands and arms. In the dim lights, he can't see what he's drawing, but Stiles' eyes don't leave his arm for a long time. He feels mesmerised watching the teen, as if he truly can't look away. He wants to know what Stiles is thinking, what he's feeling. He wants Stiles to have a sudden out burst, to shout everything out loud that's bothering him. For someone who can talk so much, Stiles is damn bad at talking about his feelings.

It’s almost three in the morning when they head out of the centre. It's almost empty, the five of them having not moved from the couches until Erica complained about feeling sick and Isaac suggested it was probably a good time to get going.

Outside, Erica barely makes it two steps before she's bending over and vomiting. Boyd goes straight to hold back her hair, rubbing her back while she retches and gags.

Stiles and Derek, who had come out first and were a few paces down the sidewalk, stopped but didn't go back.

"That’s disgusting," Stiles murmurs. He’s the classical image of a high schooler: leaning against a wall, cigarette between his fingers, old workman jacket baggy on his bony frame and collar turned up against the bitter wind. His hair is slightly curled and askew, messy and bed-ridden despite it being the end of the day.

Erica continues to retch, and Stiles wrinkles his nose as he takes a last drag. He flicks the dead bud onto the floor and pushes himself off the wall, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"You alright, Catwoman?" Stiles calls.

Erica holds up a weak thumps-up before she gags again. Nothing is coming out now, and Derek figures she's brought everything up in her stomach.

"Hey, guys, we’re going to take Erica home now," Isaac says as he comes up to them. He looks between the two, "You two gonna be okay?"

Stiles says nothing as he looks to Derek, but the older boy nods, "We’ll be fine."

"All right," Isaac replies, looking unsure. He spins around and takes Erica’s other shoulder, helping Boyd as they half drag, half carry the intoxicated blonde down the sidewalk.

Derek feels suddenly cold. He looks at Stiles and finds the younger teen lighting another cigarette, so soon after the last one, in the cup of his palm. Derek wants to snatch it away from him, tell him he’s had enough, but he doesn’t dare.

"Well," Stiles starts, taking a drag and rocking back and forth on his heels. "What now?"

Derek shakes his head. "I don’t know."

"Well, I’m cold and hungry, so Buddies?"

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes, and the teen flashes him a large, cheeky grin.

"Buddies?"

"If you haven’t heard of Buddies, you don’t deserve to be a Beacon-er."

"I’ve heard of Buddies, but it’s a shit-hole."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Sorry, forgot Derek Hale has standards. Well, no five-star restaurant is open this time of night, nor are there any in Beacon Hills anyway, so you’re fuck outta luck, big guy."

Derek stares at him for a moment, slightly surprised at the outburst but also definitely _not_.

He sighs, "Come on then. I’m getting cold too."

" _You’re_ getting cold? I didn’t think heaters like you felt the cold."

"Heater?"

"Literally, you Hale people are _never_ cold. I swear Cora has worn shorts in the winter and not given a shit."

"Just because you have anti-freeze in your veins doesn’t make us weird."

Stiles barks a laugh. "Charming."

As they walk down the sidewalk, Stiles smokes his cigarette slowly. Derek forces himself not to stare at the Cupid-bow lips tunnelled onto the bud of the cigarette, the exhales of smoke he releases.

The walk to Buddies takes them 20 minutes of idle, slow walking. Stiles burns through four more cigarettes, chain-smoking them as they keep each others company in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Derek relishes in the quietness of the sleeping town, the wide, empty roads and the dark houses. The street lights, few and far between, are dim and provide a barely-there flickering glow upon the dusty, cracked sidewalks. Stiles kicks stones as they walk like a footballer dribbling a ball, finding another one when the one he’s kicking flies off the sidewalk or he misses and it falls behind their strides.

Derek spares a glance to the side at Stiles and realises this is one of the first times he is seeing him without his skateboard or headphones around his neck.

As soon as the bright light from the sign reading _'Buddies'_ comes into view, a spring finds itself into Stiles' steps. He walks with a bounce, a grin finding home on his pale face and he bounds up to the 24 hour restaurant. He gets to the door a few yards ahead of Derek, looks back and tosses the half-finished cigarette as he says, "Hurry up, you _ślamazara_."

"What the hell does that mean?" Derek asks - he’s used to Stiles speaking occasionally in Polish, something he has done as long as Derek has known him.

"Slowpoke," Stiles translates, opening the door when Derek catches up with him. His grins grows bigger as they go inside, a new found energy vibrating from him with a vibe. "Carol!"

The plump woman behind the counter smiles, stepping up as Stiles practically _skips_ to her. "Stiles, my sweet. You look better tonight than you did the other day. Back for more curly fries?"

"And one of your divine banana milkshakes, if you please," Stiles replies, his tone as if he’s flirting.

Carol appears absolutely smitten with the boy, beaming and grinning like a proud mother. She nods and looks to Derek expectantly, "And for you, kiddo?"

"Uh. . . the same please," he replies, "but— a strawberry milkshake."

Carol beams and nods. "Coming up. Take a seat, I’ll bring it right out."

Stiles bounces towards one of the red, leather upholster booths by the window, where the view outside the short distance lit by the sign. Derek slides on the bench opposite him, the table the only thing between them. Stiles seems completely transformed: his gaunt and pale features brighter and bolder. He doesn’t look as sick, as depressed and as dark as he does when Derek see’s him around recently. From what Derek has found out over the past few weeks, Stiles has been abused by his father for a long time, but the effect it has had on him has only seemed to come to light ever since Derek found out what was happening behind those closed doors. He’s noticed a sense of silence in Stiles, the dark cloud that looms over him. He now see’s the look on Stiles’ face, the darkness in his eyes when he thinks no one is watching him. Stiles is bruised on the outside, and Derek can only imagine the scars on the inside, the mental damage consuming him, the impact of his fathers actions and words.

But, in this moment, Stiles doesn’t look like a boy who’s lost both his parents. He doesn’t look like the kid who gets his body beaten and bruised and battered, but instead he looks _normal_. He looks free, careless, young, like the other teenagers in the town.

"Why are you staring at me?"

Derek blinks. "I’m not."

Stiles lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. "You’ve been looking right at me for the last three minutes, dude. I think most people could define that as staring."

"You are the worst human being on the face of the planet."

Stiles inclines his head and smiles. "Aw, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

Derek rolls his eyes and looks around the diner. He rarely comes to places like these: the Hale’s are considered what is the classier side of town, swimming in money and pride from their long-reigning name. Buddies is not the place people would normally see a Hale, but the idea of it excites Derek as much of the idea that he’s here at almost four in the morning with Stiles Stilinski, the towns delinquent drug dealer.

"I don’t think I’ve ever eaten here before," Derek says.

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "No way. It’s the best diner in town!"

"It’s cheesy and average," Derek states matter-of-factly. "I hope the food is good."

"You will not be disappointed," Stiles defends. "Honest!"

"You know, whenever Cora says 'honest', it usually means she’s lying."

"I do know, but I’m not Cora, and I’m not lying," Stiles smiles at him with an expression that oozes so much sarcasm and sass. He looks behind Derek for a moment before his face splits with a grin, "There’s the lovely lady!"

Derek looks up in time to see Carol come to the side of the table with two plates resting on her hand and forearm and two large milkshakes in the other hand.

"Here you are, darlings," she says as she places them down. "Can I get you anything else?"

"We’re fine. Thanks, Carol," Stiles replies, grinning. "Are you here all night?"

"Till six, as usual. Haven’t had anyone come in for a while, so you two have the whole place to yourselves. Speaking of which, what the hell are you two doing up and out this time of the morning?"

"We were at the new youth centre till it closed," Stiles explains, "and when we left we realised we were both starving and in need of some excellent cooking."

Carol looks smitten. "You are a flirt, Stiles Stilinski. One day that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble."

"I don’t doubt that."

"You better keep this one on a leash, son," she says to Derek, "He’s a handful."

"Or better yet, a mouthful."

Carol claps Stiles on the back of the head playfully, shaking her head in amusement as she walks off.

Stiles tosses a curly fry into his mouth. "She loves me."

"You’re insufferable," Derek mutters. Something hits his forehead and he jerks, seeing a fry laying on the table beside his plate. He looks up, most agape. "Did you just. . . did you just _throw_ a fry at me?"

Stiles grins, white teeth on show. "Maybe."

"You’re an actual child."

"And yet you’re still hanging out with me. Peculiar, huh?"

"Very."

Stiles wears a shit-eating grin as he munches on his fries. He seems completely relaxed, content with the atmosphere and where he is. He slurps his thick milkshakes through the stripy straw, cheeks hollowing and lips pulled tight. Derek has to look away with hitched breath and shoves fries in his mouth to distract himself. He rarely eats things like this, with Peter being such a organic, made-from-scratch kind of guy, everything they eat at home is healthy and 'proper'. Derek can't remember the last time he ate anything as greasy as these curly fries.

Stiles devours half of his in minutes and pushes the half-empty plate away with a huff. Derek munches slowly, eyes constantly drawn to Stiles as he sucks the milkshake down his straw idly, looking around and completely oblivious to Derek's eyes. A song Derek doesn't recognise is playing through the speakers, but Stiles is bobbing his head and humming with familiarity. The sleeves of his work-mans jacket is baggy around his bony wrists, showing the ink he doodled on his arms earlier in the night.

"You can give yourself ink poisoning, y'know," he says suddenly.

Stiles stops humming and looks at him, inclining his head to the side is question. "What?"

"Drawing on yourself like that," Derek explains, nodding to his arms, "it could give you ink poisoning."

Stiles looks down at his arms, pushing up the sleeves slightly to reveal more of the rushed artwork. "People get tattoos all over their bodies. A bit of ink on my arms isn't going to kill me."

"They're very good."

Stiles' lips twitch in a smirk. "I think that's the nicest thing you've said to me all night."

Derek doesn't know how to reply to that, so he shovels more fries into his mouth and looks outside.

Stiles goes to the counter to pay and chats to Carol for a few minutes, their laughter ringing loudly when he walks away back to Derek.

"Let's get out of here."

When they leave, the temperature has dropped a bit more and the grass is glossy with damp. Stiles quickly buries his hands into the large space of his jacket pockets, burrowing his neck and chin down into the collar. Derek watches as he looks around for a moment before pulling out the familiar white box and placing a cigarette between his lips.

"Where's your car parked?" He asks, voice muffled by the rolled paper between his lips.

"The youth centre. Why?"

"Because I want to drive it."

Derek blinks.

"No."

"Why?" Stiles whines. "It'd be fun."

"Because you've been drinking and smoking and that's against the law."

"Jesus, Derek. It's Beacon Hills, no one gives a shit about someone drinking after they've had a few in the dead of night. Plus, I've eaten, so I'm fine."

"That's not how it works, you've still smoking enough pot to be baked and drank more than me," Derek scolds. When Stiles looks at him with big, puppy-doe eyes, Derek’s expression hardens like a disapproving father. "You're not driving my car, Stiles."

 

"You took that corner too sharp."

" _Odpieprz się_ (Fuck off)."

"Stop speaking to me in Polish. I don’t know what you’re saying!"

" _Ssać moją grubą_ (Suck my fat one)."

"Stiles, I swear to god— slow down!"

"Oh my, calm down. I’m not even—"

"You’re speeding. Stop it."

"I’m not speeding. There are no speed-limits at night."

"You’re an idiot."

" _A ty jesteś starą kobietą_ (And you’re an old lady)."

"Stiles!"

Stiles slows the car a bit, enough that Derek isn’t gripping to the door and his chair in fright. Despite the speed, Stiles isn’t too bad a driver. He’s in control, at least, and Derek thinks the need for speed comes from not actually having a license.

They’ve been driving around for almost 20 minutes, burning gas because they have nothing else to do and so far, Stiles has refused to pull over.

"I don’t get to do this like you do," he keeps protesting. "You can drive around anytime you like, I can’t. So let me have my fun, you boring grandpa."

And with that, Derek sat back and allowed Stiles to cruise around the slumbering streets.

"Why don’t you get a car?"

"Can’t afford it," Stiles replies instantly.

"Why not a license then?" Derek asks.

"Can’t afford it," Stiles repeats. He looks across to Derek over the clutch with a lop-sided _what-can-you-do_ face. "Lessons, licenses, tests. They’re all cost big-bucks that I don’t have."

"But. . . you have a job?"

"The record store pays shite, but I like working there," Stiles shrugs. Eventually, he pulls off the empty roads and parks the car in the empty parking lot outside the _GoMart_ store. He climbs out to smoke a cigarette, pulling a small bottle of half-drunk vodka out of his rucksack in the process. He grins at Derek when he climbs out to join him on the bonnet of the car where they sit.

"Want some?"

Derek shakes his head. "I don’t like Vodka straight."

" _Kiciuś_ (Pussy)," Stiles mutters.

"What does that mean?"

"Pussy," Stiles replies, and his grin is so wide it’s contagious. Derek rolls his eyes, looking away as Stiles sips the cheap vodka and smokes more cigarettes.

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Speak occasionally in Polish?"

"I enjoy speaking to and about people, and having them not understand me," Stiles explains. "It makes me feel. . . powerful, special. Like I have something nobody else has."

"Doesn’t it make you sad?"

"What, because my dead mother was Polish?" Stiles asks abruptly, looking Derek so directly in the eye it’s startling. He laughs suddenly, "Jesus. You lost your parents too, y’know."

"Yes," Derek snaps. "I fucking know."

"Good, so you know that not everything related to her stings like it used to. It was eight years ago, I’m over it."

"You lost your mother, Stiles. You don’t have to be 'over it'."

Stiles eyes have gone hard, but Derek can see vulnerability in the golden iris’. The more he has seen of Stiles these past weeks, the more he is understanding Stiles’ reaction to pain and hard-ship is to pretend it isn’t there.

Stiles burns through another cigarette, laying back so he’s reclined against the wind-shield and facing the sky.

Derek looks at his watch. "It’s almost five in the morning."

Stiles looks up at him and grins. "I like spending my nights like this."

"Outside in the cold?"

"Precisely."

"You’re weird, Stilinski."

"Woah," Stiles sits up abruptly, "It’s been a long time since you called me that."

He searches for something in his pockets, patting down his trousers before he pulls out a lighter and what initially looks like a rolled cigarette, only darker and bigger.

Stiles grins at him. "Want to smoke it?"

"I don't smoke weed," Derek replies coolly. "It smells, it's illegal and it's dangerous."

"It's only illegal if you get caught, it doesn't smell that bad and when has anyone died from it?"

"Your logic is unbelievable," Derek grumbles. He crosses his arms and looks away. "Smoke it yourself."

"Happily," Stiles replies, and a moment later there is the tale-tale sound of the lighter chamber igniting and the crackle of paper and tobacco plant burning.

Derek moves off the hood of the bonnet, away from the smell and the smoke and stands facing the car and Stiles.

"Why do you smoke?"

"Because it gets you high?" Stiles replies with a large exhale of white smoke.

"No," Derek shakes his head, crossing his arms and shifting from foot to foot. "I mean why do you smoke cigarettes?"

"Same reason most people do: it's relaxing," Stiles pauses to take a drag. "Although, turns out cigarettes don't actually calm you but instead increases your heart rate. I don't care—" he shrugs, "—it stops my hands from shaking."

Derek feels his hunched shoulders tighten for a moment before the words are tumbling out of his mouth, "Give it here."

Stiles' head inclines to look at him. In the single strobe light on in the parking lot shines on his face, the shadows showing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw. His dark eyebrows furrow, "What?"

"Give me the joint," Derek says as he inches forward, hand out.

Stiles grins excitedly and shuffles forward on the bonnet, sitting on the lip as he passes Derek the rolled paper. He's visibly vibrating, buzzing with anticipation as he watches Derek slowly bring it to his lips.

Derek pauses, looks at Stiles and sighs.

"Do you know how to smoke?"

"Yes. I have done it before."

"I'm actually surprised."

"Fuck off."

And with that, Derek brings the joint to his lips and inhales.

Fire burns the back of his throat, a punch of bitterness floods his mouth and his head spins so much he feels like he's going to be sick.

He hacks and rasps, "That tasted shit."

"Give it another go. It tastes better after a while."

"Why would I--"

"Just do it," Stiles interrupts. "Don't forget you're not a smoker, which means the tobacco in there is going to give you nicotine rush."

"There's tobacco in here too?"

"Of course. It packs it out, that shit is expensive enough as it is."

Derek sighs and takes another inhale. This one doesn't punch as much as the last, and his head feels like it's about to float off his neck when he exhales the toxic smoke.

"Jesus," he sighs.

Stiles' grins grows wider. "Fucking amazing, right?"

"I don't know how I feel."

"You feel like a virgin-stoner getting high for the first time," Stiles chuckles. "Take another and give it back."

Derek does and this time the feeling goes right down to his fingertips. He feels tingly and weird, almost shaky as he passes back the joint.

He leans against the bonnet, and Stiles shuffles up so he's sitting beside Derek with his knees drawn up to his chest. He smokes as he watches Derek drink in the feeling swarming through him.

"How'd you feel?"

"I'm not sure," Derek replies. "I feel like I'm floating but also like I'm shaking. Is that normal?"

"It is for newbies," Stiles holds up the bottle of Vodka, "Want any?"

Derek shakes his head and stops when it feels like his brain is hitting the walls of his skull. A sudden thought comes to him, "Where did you get that?"

"The same place I get my cigarettes: Greenberg," Stiles replies with a nonchalant shrug. He takes a large swig and says, "What’s your favourite song?"

" _Jessie’s Girl_ by Rick Springfield."

Stiles rolls his eyes hard. "No. No, no, no. My God, that is such a jock song."

"'Jock song'?"

"Yes. The cool, broody, jock-guy song. Wait here," Stiles leaps off the bonnet and rounds the car, grabbing something out of his rucksack from the backseat. He comes out with a small plastic box and redeems his seat on the end of the car lip. "Listen to this."

He jabs down a large button and a song begins to play. Derek recognises it from the radio, but even after a minute in, he has no idea what he’s listening to.

"Who is this?"

Stiles’ eyes widen. " _Cholera jasna_ (Holy shit). You. . . it’s Survivor! _Eye of the Tiger_? Come on, man! Okay, okay, listen to this one."

He plays another song, but Derek can’t name it.

"Derek!" Stiles exclaims. "You’re _so_ uneducated."

"Are you serious? Because I don’t know the name of this song?"

"It’s a classic! It’s _Rockin’ Robin_ by Bobby Day!"

"This sounds like something a dad would listen to."

"Oh my, _God._ You can’t say that to me. You can’t. Take it back."

"What? I—"

"Take it back!"

"Okay, fine. I’m sorry, it’s a great song."

"You need musical educating, my friend. Okay, next song."

They listen to almost all of Stiles’ playlist. They listen to _Come on, Eileen_ , _When Doves Cry, Tainted Love, Sweet Dreams,_ and more. Derek actually enjoys the music, and most of which he recognises from the radio. He listens to Stiles singing Queens _Another One Bites the Dust_ , jerking his head side to side with the beat.

Derek ends up laughing, chest aching and breath stolen with hysteria as Stiles sings and mimes the music until they’re both in fits of giggles.

"Oh my, God," Stiles mutters, "I think. . . I think I’m gonna—"

Suddenly, he hurls himself off the bonnet, landing with a crack to his elbow as he scrambles up, stumbles a few steps and vomits violently into a bush.

"Oh, Jesus— Stiles—" Derek starts, pushing himself off the bonnet to approach the heaving teen.

After a minute, Stiles stops. He’s bent over, hands on his knees, head hanging. He spits a few times and rasps, "That was gross."

"Yeah," Derek huffs a chuckle. "Yeah, it was. Are you okay?"

"Peachy," Stiles replies and spits audibly. He stands straight, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and walks back over to Derek and the car. "Don’t look so horrified, it’s only a bit of sick."

He’s slurring now, face ashen white and legs unsteady.

"It sounded awful."

"Vomiting up your stomach contents normally does. I feel fine, stop sweating it."

"You don’t look fine," Derek replies nervously. "Are you—"

He catches the teen when he hurls his body forward as his foot catches on a uneven paving slab. He falls face-first into Derek’s chest, hands gripping claw-like on his shoulders. Stiles bursts out a laugh, shaking against Derek as the older teen practically holds him up.

"Idiot. You seriously need to learn your limits."

"Get fucked," Stiles replies, and then laughs as if he told a funny joke.

"Come on," Derek heaves him so he’s standing upright again, not letting go for fear he’ll fall again. "Lets get you home."

Instantly, Stiles’ body goes tense. He shakes his head, "No. No, I can’t go home. Either take me to the top of the hill or Deuc’s."

"Top of the—? Jesus, okay. Fine, we’ll go back to my house."

Stiles pouts his lips for a moment, looking like he’s seriously contemplating it. "Okay. That’s cool. Your house is nice."

"My house _is_ nice, thank you," Derek humours, "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Stiles nods. After a long moment, he pushes himself off Derek, stumbles for a few steps before he balances himself. "Don’t worry about me, Der. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this."

"Done what?"

"Got drunk and gone home. Normally though I do it alone, so it’s nice to have some company."

Somehow, the words hit Derek harder than they were meant to. As Stiles speaks, he speaks with freedom and nonchalant, so unaware how _sad_ it sounds that he spends so much time getting drunk alone.

They leave the car in the parking lot, both of them stumbling through the Preserve. Stiles gets out another joint, and Derek ends up taking it for drags when Stiles passes it over, so they’re both weak on their feet and half-high by the time they get to the house. The forest is dark, the ground uneven and they both end up laughing in fits again when Stiles trips over them face-first and Derek actually trips on a fallen log.

It’s gone six in the mooning when Derek shushes Stiles, who’s still giggling, as he unlocks the front door.

"You need to shut up," Derek scolds quietly. "We’re going to wake everyone up."

"It’s too early to sleep anyway," Stiles replies as they go into the kitchen. They’d sobered up some on the walk home, despite getting a tint of high from the joint.

"Well, are you hungry?" Derek asks. "You kind of vomited up your dinner."

"Nah, man. Coffee would be nice though," Stiles flashes him a cheeky grin, going to the back door to open it. He drops down on the step and pulls out the box of cigarettes.

"Haven’t you run out of those yet?"

"Almost," Stiles replies, holding up the box for a moment. He’s got his back to Derek and the room. There’s the familiar sound of the chamber lighting in his Zippo. "I’ve got more at home."

Derek hums as he fills two mugs with fresh brewed coffee. He hands Stiles his mug as he steps outside, taking a seat on one of the porch decking chairs and facing Stiles on the step.

"You’re so lucky to have this house," Stiles says after a few minutes of silence. "You have no idea, honestly. I would kill for a house like this, and for a family like yours."

Derek looks up at the back of the house. "Yeah. It’s nice, I guess."

"I know it’s wrong, y’know," Stiles goes on, looking down at the mug between his hands. "I know my dad beats me, and I know it’s wrong and that anyone and everyone with eyes and a functioning brain cell knows what’s happening behind closed doors, but I don’t care."

Derek watches him as he speaks, listening to the soft vulnerability of his voice.

"My mother told me to get out of this town as soon as I was old enough, but I don’t think I’ll do it."

For the first time in minutes, Derek speaks, "Why?"

"Because I’m just a delinquent shit who sells drugs and drinks. That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? 'That Stilinski boy, nothing but trouble'. I’m not even going to graduate from high school because half the time I’m too fucking bruised to turn up."

Derek’s chest aches.

"You can graduate," he says, and Stiles’ head rises so he’s looking at Derek. "You can get out. You’re. . . you’re not trapped here forever just because your old man makes you feel like you are. You don’t need to sell or do drugs, you don’t need to be the towns 'delinquent'."

"I do," Stiles whispers. "I need the money, and Deucalion is like my family. Him and the others have protected me for years when no one else has."

"Stiles," Derek says with desperate need. He gets up, moves so he’s crouched in front of Stiles and takes his hands in his. "You are stronger than you think. What your dad does. . . it’s not forever if you don’t want it to be. You can get out, you are smart and talented enough to get out because your mother is right. This town will drag you down and swallow you up more than it already has. This town has nothing for you, it has no future but you deserve one."

Stiles’ eyes are wide and deep, his mouth open a fraction.

"Derek. . ."

Derek doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but suddenly he’s leaning forward and connecting their lips. He moves instantly to jerk away when Stiles chases him, keeping them locked. Adrenaline floods Derek’s veins, ecstasy shoots down his spine. His hands tingle and his head spins where his eyes have closed.

Suddenly, the realisation of what is happening slams into Derek like a punch and he jerks away. He kissed _Stiles._

He _kissed Stiles._

Stiles’ eyes are now wide, mouth open where Derek pulled away.

"Stiles. . ."

"I should go," Stiles whispers, voice fragile and so _small_.

"Stiles, wait—"

But Stiles is already running from the back door, swiping his rucksack off the table and leaving.

Derek doesn’t move from the step for a long time.

 

_— tbc._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most cliche ending to a chapter ever. please excuse the kiss-and-run scenario that i just couldn't resist including :)


	6. the catch of being alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like a few of you have already read this chapter because i accidentally updated it last week and had to delete it. oh well!
> 
>  **major warnings for this chapter:** graphic descriptions of abuse and mental health.

When Stiles sits down next to Erica at the lunch table on Monday morning, Scott is in the middle of explaining a dream he had the previous night.

"—And we were playing chess on the beach, and you were getting mad because I was winning. And _then_ , when I looked up from the chess board, you were pulling off your face - which was actually a mask - and underneath you were Amanda Seyfried! It was totally awesome, but then the sea turned into this giant wave and I saved me and Amanda from this big white shark. It ended with us surfing up onto a beach in Australia and she kissed me because I saved her life."

Stiles gasps, "Oh my God, I had the exact same dream!"

"Really?" Scott exclaims, eyes bug-wide.

"Are you crazy? Of course I didn’t."

Scott visibly deflates as he flashes Stiles a blank look. "I’m being serious, man. It was an awesome dream."

"I’m sure Allison would love to hear about you making out with Amanda Seyfried," Stiles murmurs, stabbing his plastic fork into a cube of watermelon. "Where is she, anyway?"

"She’s studying in the library with Lydia. They have a history test next period."

Erica rolls her eyes. "Try hards."

"There is nothing wrong with wanting to succeed!" Scott defends.

Erica rolls her eyes again, _harder_. "Scott, I think your girlfriend can go one day without her knight in shining armour. Give it a damn rest."

"Jesus," Scott mumbles, looking down at his food with red cheeks. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

"Erica is still recovering from her hangover, Scott," Stiles explains, plopping a watermelon cube into his mouth.

Erica glares at him. "I’m not hungover."

"Erica, sweetie, you were drunk off your ass two nights ago and you still look like death has rolled over you," Stiles replies, tone very matter-of-factly, pointing at her with his fork. "You, my prickly friend, are still hanging and bitter about it."

Unable to deny it, Erica glares a little harder and mutters, "Fuck you, Stilinski."

Stiles beams like he’s been complimented and eats more watermelon. A moment later, Boyd and Isaac drop down on the other side of the table. Boyd’s arm immediately curls around Erica’s waist and Isaac reaches across to snatch a cube of juicy watermelon off Stiles’ plate.

"Dude, that’s mine."

"Sharing is caring, Stiles."

"Don’t take it, Isaac," Erica adds, "It’s probably the only thing the idiot has eaten in days."

"Wow. Rude, okay?"

"Am I wrong?" Erica asks.

Stiles opens his mouth, and promptly shuts it with defeat.

"Hey, Erica," Isaac starts, looking at her around Boyd. "How’re you feeling?"

His tone is teasing and Erica’s eyes instantly go dark.

"Fuck off, Lahey."

"Wow, prickly today, I see," Isaac laughs. He turns to Stiles, "Hey, man, where did you and Derek get to? We kind of left you guys on your own."

Stiles feels his spine tingle, hands unsteady as it cradles his fork. His tongue suddenly feels dry. _Derek_.

"Uh, we. . . we just kind of walked around for a while, smoked some stuff, and went. . . w-went home," he replies, flashing a tight smile. "Nothing much."

Isaac’s eyes narrow with seriousness, face loosing it’s teasing humour to something more sensitive, as if he _knows_ something happened. Erica and Boyd look the same, almost sad at the words he replies. Scott is frowning too, but he looks more confused than anything.

"You. . . you hung out with Derek?" He asks.

"Dude, why is that such a surprise?"

"Because you normally hang out with _Cora_. Derek is. . . Derek."

"Congrats, Scott, glad you got that figured out," Stiles almost snaps sarcastically. "It was only for a few hours. But I got him to try a joint."

Isaac’s eyes look like they’re going to bulge out of their sockets. "No way! How the hell did you manage that? He’s as tight about that shit as my old man."

"He wanted to do it. He whined about it for ages but then he asked to try it. I think he liked it."

"I can’t imagine Derek high," Erica laughs.

"He was pretty spaced out the first time."

"The first time?" Isaac almost yells. "You got him to do it twice?"

Stiles nods and Isaac stews in his shock for a few minutes.

"You on tonight at the shop?" Stiles asks. And when Isaac nods, Stiles adds, "Good. I’m out with Ennis tonight so. . ."

"Speaking of which," Erica chimes in, "Could you possibly, pretty pretty please, get some grass for me and Boyd?"

"You got money?"

Erica rolls her eyes. "Yes, if we must pay."

"You must," Stiles quips. He begins to get up, craving a cigarette. "I’ll see you losers later."

He goes to sit on the bleachers, carrying his skateboard under his arm. He bursts through the double doors out onto the lacrosse field with a careless bounce in his step. There’s a group of jocks in kits on the field for lunchtime practice, but Stiles pays them no mind as he makes his way up the steps and along one of the bleachers benches. There’s a pair of girls down the other end, eating their lunch too.

Stiles pulls out his box of cigarettes, his lighter, and William Golding’s _Lord of the Flies_. He was recommended it by his English teacher, Mr Guilford, and has been enjoying it so far. Placing a cigarette between his lips, Stiles leans back on the bench behind him and opens the book.

He’s seven pages further and halfway down a cigarette when he hears his name be called. He looks up and see’s none other than Derek Hale running towards him on the field, dressed in his white baseball uniform that clings in all the right and wrong places. Stiles swallows dryly and looks straight back down at his book.

_Ignore him_ , he tells himself. _Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him ignore him ignore—_

"Stiles," the voice is closer and he risks looking up again through his eyelashes. Derek is standing at the edge of the bleachers barrier, his cap in his hand. He waves Stiles down, and reluctantly, Stiles puts his book down and steps slowly down.

"What do you want?"

"Seriously?" Derek asks, and when Stiles replies with nothing but a inhale from his cigarette, he laughs bitterly and looks away. "You know, you shouldn’t smoke on school property."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Is that what you called me over for? Because I’m polluting your precious baseball field?"

"You know that’s not why," Derek murmurs, and when he looks up his expression is closed and vulnerable. Stiles almost feels guilty for being blunt in the beginning.

It’s been two days since the youth club and the kiss, and Stiles hasn’t spoken a word to Derek nor has Derek spoken to Stiles. The telephone in the kitchen has been silent ever since that night Stiles walked out and stumbled home, breath stolen and mind reeling. He’d been so struck and surprised that he’d taken no mind in whether his father was home or not when he got there at seven that morning. He’d spent his Sunday walking around Maryland with half a conscious mind with Kali, barely listening to her talk about whatever her and Ennis were arguing about that week. Coming into school that morning, Stiles had felt sick to his stomach at the prospect of bumping into Derek. The kiss had been a mistake, and Stiles knows Derek thought so otherwise he wouldn’t have pulled away and would have called after. Thankfully, Cora wasn’t in today either as she’s out with Laura, because Stiles is pretty sure he couldn’t face her either.

"I don’t know what there is to say," Stiles says lamely with a shrug. His cigarette has gone out and died. His hands shake and he craves another one already.

Derek watches him, eyes calculating. "I feel like I need to apologise. I shouldn’t have kissed you—"

"Do you regret it?" Stiles interrupts.

"What?"

"Do you regret it?" Stiles repeats, emphasising his words.

Derek takes a moment to reply. He looks around, mouth opening and closing.

"No," he says finally, and his eyes meet Stiles, burning with determination. "I don’t regret it."

"Then don’t apologise," Stiles whispers. He feels emotionally weak, like this conversation is going to tear him from the inside. He feels too tired to deal with this, too tired to pretend the way he feels inside doesn’t exist. "We should just forget about it."

Derek’s face falls. "You. . . you want to forget about it?"

Stiles clenches his jaw. His mind is reeling at the prospect that Derek doesn’t regret it, but he also can’t convince himself that Derek _wanted_ it, or that Derek still  _wants_ him.

"Yes," he lies. "We should forget about it. We should pretend it never happened."

"Is that really what you want?"

No. "Yes. I think it’ll be best."

"Forget what is best," Derek insists, "What do you _want?"_

Stiles could scream, cry and kiss Derek all in one moment. Instead, he nods stiffly and pretends his breath is coming short.

Derek’s mouth draws tight, his lips pressed together as his jaw clenches and unclenches. He seems hurt and angry - and Stiles is a moment away from taking it all back when he says, "Fine. We’ll forget about it. See you around."

And then he’s spinning around, running back onto the field with the others. Stiles’ mouth is open agape, his heart pounding like it’s going to burst out of his chest. Despite the field being half empty and only the two girls being on the other end of the bleachers, Stiles feels like every eye in the world is focused on him. He feels a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck and his legs threaten to give out as he practically runs back up the bleachers to retrieve his things and make a break for it.

He doesn’t go to the rest of his lessons. He walks out of the school grounds, pulling his headphones on so he can blast Prince so loud he can’t hear a damn thing else. He skates through town, ignoring the blares of car horns and the shouts of surprised side-walkers. He feels shaky and unsteady the whole way home, like he's been hit with a bad bout of high that makes him feel like his skin is melting off his bones.

He tumbles off his skateboard when he gets to the metal chain-link fence of his front garden, stumbling and scooping up the board with jerky movements. He marches up to the front door, breath heavy like he’s run a mile, and storms into the house. He was blind to notice the cruiser sitting out front, and ignores the cry of rage from the kitchen.

He doesn’t hear what his father says. His ears are stuffed with cotton, everything sounds as if he’s underwater and his blood roars. He runs up the stairs, the shouts from downstairs following him up. He goes straight to his room and slams the door behind him, too caught up in his own panic to register the bangs of fists against the locked door and the shouts and threats of rage his father screams at him.

He slides down the wall beneath his window. His lungs are tied in rope, chest so tight it barely moves as he heaves and heaves, chasing a breath that’s not there. His eyes are filled to the brim with hot tears, burning and wide and panicked. He scratches at his chest and his throat, wheezing like a punctured balloon as the panic attack takes hold.

All he can see through unseeing eyes is Derek’s face. He see’s flashes. Flashes of the night they kissed, Derek’s face when he pulled away, and today at the bleachers.

Stiles doesn’t know if he blew it or saved himself, but whatever he’s done, he regrets it. How can he ever face Derek again? How can he ever face any of them again? Cora, Laura, Peter, he can’t stand to think of the idea of seeing them again after what’s happened. Stiles wasn’t even aware he felt this way. He always found Derek attractive— he’s _Derek Hale_ , everyone finds him attractive. But Stiles wanted to see _layers_ , and instead he’s been fucked. He’d never imagined he’d kiss Derek, let alone feel the helpless feeling he has now knowing he’ll never do it again. And Stiles wants to do it again, and that scares him more than anything else ever has. Derek is like an older brother, or at least like a cousin, and Stiles doesn’t know if he can shake that.

Kissing him felt so _good_ , and Stiles craves the feeling again. That night on the bonnet of his car, singing the songs and giggling in hysterics like school girls made Stiles feel something he has never felt before. It made him feel alive, like he was capable of doing anything. It made him feel better than any high has ever made him feel, like he was something his mother could finally be proud of. He felt like he was on cloud nine without the drugs floating through him. For the first time in a long time, Stiles felt _good_.

He wants that back. He wants to feel it again and again and again. He wants to feel it forever, like everyone else does. He doesn’t want to feel like this burden anymore, like a waste of space. He knows his mother would be disappointed in him, but until now he didn’t care. His mother abandoned him, left him with the fiery rage inside his father. In a way, Stiles resented his mother for dying, and for so long he didn’t care about what he was becoming in rebellion to what happened when she left. But now he cares. Now he has had a taste of something and he’s addicted. He wants to be something to be proud of, he wants his father to care about him again and his teachers to believe in him. He wants people to want to see him for more than drugs.

But Stiles also doesn’t know why he thinks being with Derek would help this. Stiles is broken. He’s ruined, and his reputation is clinging to him like a stench. He _is_ the towns delinquent drug dealer, and he doesn’t know why he thinks he can change that.

He calms down eventually. His skin is tingling and his lungs are burning with the first breath that reaches them, but he can finally _breathe_. He has his legs folded against his chest, his head resting on the sharp knobs of his bony knees and arms tucked in-between. He’s impossibly small tucked away under his window as he finally becomes aware of his surroundings. His fathers fists have stopped their rampage on his door, his shouts and threats have died down. Stiles knows he’s left, but he also knows his father is going to be angry. He feels like he should be more scared about that, but the idea of facing anyone again in this town terrifies him more.

He feels shaky and weak when the attack is over, like he’s recovering from a bout of flu. He can feel his bones rattle when he breathes, shaking like he’s going to break apart at the joints.

Stiles doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to his cheek against the floorboards of his bedroom and his knees curled up to his chest. He sits up from where he slept under the window, limbs aching and head banging. His eyes feel sore and crusty from dried tears and he feels weak with both humiliation and bad sleep. Panic attacks wipe him out completely, and with his already low energy levels, Stiles feels as though he is literally running on fumes now.

He pushes himself to his feet slowly and checks his watch for the time: **5:04 AM**. There’s no way he’s getting back to sleep now, and as he approaches his bedroom door, he pauses in the idea of going downstairs. His father was furious last night, and Stiles doesn’t know if he can face him yet. If he was home that time of night, he most likely isn’t starting at the station till seven.

Opening his bedroom door, Stiles peers into the hallway. He doesn’t know if his father is in his room or downstairs, so he dashes into the bathroom to swipe his toothbrush off the side and leaps back into his bedroom. He shuts his door silently, shoving his toothbrush into his rucksack with his sketchbook and grabs some clean clothes to change into. His jeans hang loose on his hips so he grabs a belt from his draw, putting on some of his thick socks before his dirt-stained trainers. He grabs a wooly jumper before he grabs his headphones and skateboard. He goes over to his window, climbing out as he has done so many times during his life. He rests on the roof for a moment, pulling on his workmanship jacket over the jumper to block out the harsh winter wind. Pulling his headphones on, Stiles restarts his cassette and begins to climb down the side of the house.

The town is dead at this time in the morning, but that also means nothing is open and no one is around. Stiles isn’t in the mood to trek to Buddies, so he skates halfway through town to BHHS. The school is closed, but Stiles climbs over the fence onto the lacrosse and baseball field so he can sit on the bleachers. He feels tense, tight like a coiled spring, so as soon as he drops down on the bleachers he pulls out a rolled joint and lights it. Instantly, he feels the anxiety drain out of him like the plug has been pulled. He turns up his jacket collar against the wind and pulls out _Lord of the Flies_.

He finishes both in no time, so he tucks away the finished book and pulls out his sketchbook. He flips to the last used page, where his mother’s half-finished face stares back at him. He pulls out his pencil, but falters when he suddenly realises he’s beginning to forget what his mother looks like. All the photos of her in the house were taken down years ago, and the only picture Stiles managed to grab is hiding under his bed in secret from his father. He pulls out his wallet from his bag, opening it to reveal the small image of his mother. It was taken in spring the year before she got sick, sitting outside in the garden in the early sunshine of the morning, her auburn long hair flowing down her shoulders. She’s smiling, face beaming and Stiles feels himself go cold all over at the sight. His heart sinks at the realisation that he was forgetting what she looked like. He forgot about a few of the moles on her face, or the slight gap between her two front teeth.

It begins to rain suddenly, pouring down so hard he’s soaked through almost immediately. He grabs his books and his bag and dashes down the slippery bleachers steps, ducks back and climbs underneath the benches.

At eight, students begins to roll in and the school comes alive. Stiles stays under the bleachers, the rain pouring down around him in icy sheets. When the bell rings, he goes inside and goes straight to his locker. His hair is dripping wet and his jacket is sodden through when he unlocks the locker door and shoves his books inside.

He arrives in class late, everyone else already seated. The teacher takes one look at him and glares with a look so cold it could freeze ice. Stiles sits down at the back silently, feeling oddly numb throughout the whole lesson. He doesn’t register a single word the teacher says and when the bell goes, he walks with half-a-mind to his next class.

At lunch, Scott asks him if he’s okay.

"Yeah," Cora adds. "You look like shit, Stilinski."

"Okay, get fucked, you two. I’m fine, just had a bad nights sleep."

"Is that you implying you actually slept?" Cora raises a sharp, sassy eyebrow. "And you’re saying you feel _worse?"_

Stiles rolls his eyes and flips her off. " _Odpieprz się_ (Fuck off). I’m going to my locker."

"Bye!" Cora sings, mouth full of crisps. Stiles grimaces and flips her off, leaving the table and the lunch hall. The corridors are crowded with lingering students so Stiles shuffles and moves between the groups of high schoolers.

He’s shoving books into his locker when he feels someone come to his side. He doesn’t have a moment to look and see before they’re speaking.

"Hey, Stilinski."

Instantly, Stiles knows who it is.

"What do you want, Matt?"

He finally turns and looks at the dark haired teen, feeling exasperated without already starting the conversation.

"Listen, I was wondering if you could get me some. . . y’know. . ." he looks around before he leans in closer, voice falling to a hushed whisper, "some grass."

"Jesus, Matt, you can fucking say weed," Stiles practically growls. "I don’t have any on me. So get lost."

"Please, man. Come on, you’re meant to be a dealer—"

"Matt, I don’t have any," Stiles snaps, slamming his locker shut. "Fuck off."

"Liar," Matt replies, face growing red. "I can smell it on you!"

"That’s because I smoked my last one this morning, fuck wit, now _leave me alone!"_

Matt’s face contorts like his father’s does and suddenly, Stiles is bring thrown back into the lockers. Padlocks smash harshly onto his spine, winding him and knocking the breath out of his lungs.

"I said, _fuck off!"_ Stiles growls, fury igniting in him like it never has before. He doesn’t know where the temper is coming from, but it controls him. He pushes Matt back where he crowded him against the lockers, and the older boy stumbles slightly. People have stopped and looked, curious to what is happening. Matt’s face is red and his eyes are blazing like a furious bull.

Stiles doesn’t see it coming, but all of a sudden he’s being clipped in the mouth with Matt’s swinging fist and he’s stumbling back. The coppery taste of blood floods his mouth and pain explodes in his jaw, he takes barely a moment to swipe his lip and when he see’s his hand coming back red, he figures he has nothing left to lose.

Angry and hurting, Stiles leaps and tackles Matt, the pair falling to a ground in a heap of flying limbs, punching and kicking with no aim. Stiles feels Matt land some hits, feels his skin bruise and sting. His knuckles soon become aching but he doesn’t stop until something yanks him back by his collar. Hauled to his feet by the neck, Stiles finds himself looking across at a flustered and bruised Matt being held up by Harris.

"What the hell is going on?" Finstock roars in Stiles’ ear. Adrenaline is pumping through Stiles like a second blood, his ears ringing and hands shaking. He got into a fist fight— a _fist fight_ with _Matt Daehler_. He feels like an idiot. Finstock shakes him by the collar. "Answer me! What the hell are you two doing?"

Stiles licks his lip, which stings and floods his mouth once again with the bitter taste of blood. "What did it look like we were doing?"

"Stilinski started it—"

"Are you fucking—"

"All right!" Finstock shouts. "Enough! Principles office, _now_. He can damn deal with you two idiots!"

Released from Finstock’s hold, Stiles reaches down to pick up his rucksack and realises that everyone in the corridor is watching them, that huge crowds have formed either side of them. With Finstock’s hand against his back, he’s shoved in the direction of the principles office, ducking his head to hide his split lip.

Finstock waits outside with them while Harris goes in to speak to Mr Thomas. Stiles watches Matt’s leg bounce up and down, forcing his own not to giggle with anxiety. He’s so screwed - he knows the moment his father finds out about this he is going to be beaten black and blue.

The office door opens and Harris steps out, his face twisted in a sick, smug smirk, like he knows great punishment is coming for them. Stiles hears Matt swallow audibly as Harris steps out, dragging Finstock with him.

Mr Thomas steps into his office doorway, eyes hard as ice.

"Come in, boys," he says before he’s stepping back and motioning inside. Reluctantly, Stiles gets up and follows Matt in, the door closing behind him and Mr Thomas. Him and Matt drop down in the chairs on the other side of the desk.

For a long moment, Mr Thomas doesn’t say anything but watches them both with calculating eyes.

"So," he begins, finally sitting. "Who’s going to tell me what happened?"

Matt doesn’t need telling twice. "Stilinski got lairy, and he pushed me so—"

"Wait— I told you to back off and you pushed and punched me—"

"He threw me to the floor—"

"After you punched me!"

"Boys!" Mr Thomas raises his voice in an exasperated tone. He shakes his head. "I don’t really care how this started. I don’t care who through the first punch, or who pushed who. You’re both an embarrassment to this school."

"But, sir—"

"No 'but’s, Daehler. You’re both a pair of shit-heads and I won’t stand for this behaviour in my halls," Mr Thomas snaps. "Detentions everyday for a month, _both_ of you."

"Sir—"

"A _month_ , Daehler."

Matt’s lip trembles with fury. "My father will hear about this."

"He will. I’ll be phoning him as soon as we’re done here to tell him his son got into a fist fight in the school corridors. I’m sure he won’t think the punishment is too harsh then."

Matt looks angry, but he sinks into his chair, defeated.

Mr Thomas looks at Stiles. "You’re being very quiet, Mr Stilinski. Is there anything you would like to say?"

Stiles forces himself to shake his head. He has nothing to say, and no reason he can justify to argue.

"Very well," Mr Thomas concludes. "Mr Daehler, you’re excused. Get the damn hell out of my office."

Matt stands up, "Sir—"

"Get the hell out, Daehler. You’re punishment is final."

Huffing like a angry girl, Matt grabs his bag and stomps out, slamming the door behind him. The office is silent for almost a minute before Mr Thomas is standing from his chair and rounding the desk. He leans on the front, crossing his arms.

"Listen, Mr Stilinski," he starts. "I know what you are."

Stiles inclines his head. "What I am?"

"Yes, you’re the type of person brought into the world who has nothing to offer," Mr Thomas replies. His words are so blunt and harsh Stiles almost startles. "You’re never going to be anything, Stilinski, and everybody knows that."

"Uh, sir—"

"And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t drag the other students down."

Stiles blinks. "Fuck you."

Mr Thomas’ eyebrows fly to his hairline. "Did you just—"

Stiles jumps to his feet and storms out the door, Mr Thomas shouting behind him. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry or scream, but he’s breathing so fast he knows exactly what is coming.

Practically running out of the principles office, Stiles bumps straight into a wall and stumbles back. A hand grabs his arm before he can fall completely on his ass, and suddenly Stiles is staring into the face of a surprised and worried looking Derek.

"Holy— are you okay?"

Stiles yanks his arm out of Derek’s hold and shoulders past him, hurrying to escape when footsteps follow him and Derek is grabbing his arm again, pulling him around to face him.

"Stiles—"

"Leave me alone, Derek," he snaps. "I wouldn’t want to 'drag you down'."

Derek stands, shell-shocked. He blinks, mouth flapping like a fish. "W-what?"

"Leave me alone," Stiles repeats, voice shaking. He snatches his arm back once more and spins to run away. This time, Derek doesn’t follow him.

It’s raining by the time he makes it home. He’s soaked through for a second time that day but he’s so angry and hurt he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s shaking when he bursts through the front door. His body is aching, his head is pounding and he’s moments from dropping to the floor. The only small blessing of the day is that John isn’t home, so Stiles doesn’t have to sneak in and can be as loud as he wants in his shamed rage. Black spots dance in his vision, the banging in his head increasing so he grabs a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge and crashes on the couch.

The last thing he thinks about is the words Mr Thomas said to him.

_You’re never going to be anything, Stilinski._

 

He wakes to the sound of a door slamming. He jerks up, and barely has a moment to register that his father has just stormed through the front door, roaring his name.

He appears in the doorway of the living room.

"Stiles," he says. His voice has taken on a cold kind of calm, like the calm before the storm. Stiles shoves down the urge to shiver. "I got a call, while I was at work, from your school."

_Oh gówno (Oh shit)_ , Stiles thinks. _So the principle did call his father. . ._

"Fighting, Stiles? You’re getting into _fights_ now? Are you fucking kidding me?!" Everything he speaks, his voice grows louder and angrier.

Stiles gets to his feet slowly. "Dad. . . it wasn’t— it wasn’t like that."

"It 'wasn’t like that'?" His father mocks, inclining his head. "The bruises on your face say different."

Stiles can’t stop himself reaching up and touching the tender swell of his lip. "I—"

"They called me at work, Stiles!" His father roars. "How much more of an embarrassment do you want to be?"

Stiles doesn’t have a chance to reply before his father is storming across the room and grabbing him by the collar. He’s thrown to the side like he weighs nothing, going down like a sack of potatoes. The back of his head collides with the sharp edge of a cabinet leg and everything goes black for a moment. He opens his eyes again to his father standing over him, chest visibly rising and falling like a mad man.

"Dad. . ." he croaks, voice almost lost and small. His breath leaves him with the first kick to the ribs. His vision bleeds white and pain explodes in his chest and back. The kicking doesn’t slow down, if anything it feels like his father has more than two legs.

The hits blur into one continuous blow. Stiles can’t breathe. His eyes are clamped shut, arms wrapped around his head to protect it but leaving his torso, legs and back exposed. He doesn’t know when the kicks stops exactly, but he slowly becomes aware that they have. His entire body is one large throb, and he can barely move his arms without white-hot pain paralysing him. He hears his father above him, the vague sound of him muttering something about needing a drink.

Stiles hears him leave, hears the blessed sound of his retreating footsteps. He uncurls himself slowly, shaking so hard with pain and fear and adrenaline that he looks like he’s seizing on the living room floor. He moans, pain travelling through every nerve in his body.

He can’t breathe as he pushes himself to his feet, every inch of him throbbing. He sways, stumbling as he reaches down to grab his bag he dropped when he got home. His whole body is on fire as he somehow manages to get to the front door, retch it open and drag himself outside.

It’s raining heavier than it has done all day. It soaks through Stiles’ pale knitted jumper instantly, soaking his skin and freezing his bones. His head is spinning so fast he’s unsteady on his feet as he stumbles into town. He’s shaking, from the cold, pain or shock, he doesn’t know, but he can’t stop and it’s throwing him more off balance. He can barely walk straight, numb to the core so much that he doesn’t think as he trips along, his ribs burning inside his chest that feels too tight.

He doesn’t know how long he’s walking for, his legs like jelly and his skin burning like cold ice. The rain doesn’t ease up, a howling wind making it feel storm-like. The gloomy down is dead on the streets where Stiles stumbles and sways along, footsteps so slow and sluggish he’s barely making distance.

His chin is practically resting on his chin when a light catches his eyes. The rain is roaring so loud he didn’t even hear the car approach, but he see’s when he looks up the headlights of the car blind him. The light makes the pounding in his head intensify, and the object to focus on makes Stiles aware of the black and white spots dancing in front of his eyes.

The car slows to a stop, pulling against the curb. He see’s, through the thick lines of rain blocking the path, the door open and someone step out. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s the light or his darkening vision, but the person is nothing but a moving black silhouette. He hears them shout something that sounds vaguely like his name before the surface of the sidewalk is rising to meet him.

 

Derek watches Stiles’ eyes roll to the back of his head before the younger boy drops like a boneless sack of stones.

"Stiles!" He shouts in alarm, breaking into a run as the boy begins to fall. Stiles doesn’t respond as he crumbles to the floor in an unconscious heap, legs folding like wet cardboard. His body collides with the wet sidewalk, but Derek catches his head before it can smash and ricochet off the hard concrete floor.

"Stiles," he says again, shouting over the rain. Stiles is wet, pale and cold in his hands. His face is bruised, but Derek can’t tell how much due to the shadows of the night and streetlights. He’s soaked, clothes saturated and rain drops dripping off the wet strands of his flat hair that’s plastered to his forehead like washed up seaweed. He’s sprawled out and limp on the ground, head heavy in Derek’s palms, rolling limply as Derek grabs one shoulder, moves him around so he’s laying across his lap to shake him awake. Stiles is completely knocked out, unresponsive and cold. He’s so cold he could be hyperthermic, and the moment the word makes itself known in Derek’s head, panic swarms him. Stiles is cold enough, still enough, and blue enough to be hyperthermic, and the hitched, raspiness of his breath and tremble and crackle of his chest when it rises and falls worries Derek just as much. Stiles looks more beaten than he did when Derek watched him run out of school hours before, and he thinks he knows exactly who is to blame.

Now soaked himself, Derek pulls up the sodden fabric of Stiles’ jumper and t-shirt, revealing the purple and blue watercolour smudge on his chest and abdomen. Shivering from the cold himself, Derek gather’s Stiles’ weightless and small form into his arms and carries him to the car.

He places Stiles in the passenger seat, the boy limp and small as Derek belts him in and covers him with a blanket from the trunk. As he drives, Stiles doesn’t wake or rouses. He stays, slumped and unconscious, against the Camaro door.

He isn’t thinking straight when he takes Stiles to the Hale house instead of hospital, but in his mind all he can think is that if they go there, John will be able to find them.

It’s barely 11 at night when Derek pulls up on the large extended drive. The plummet of rain has made the ground around their house and the track leading to the road a muddy slide, the ground sloppy and unstable under feet and wheel. Derek’s feet slide in sink the mud when he gets out of the car, the drive having taken longer than normal due to the unclear sight of the road and the slippery surfaces.

He picks Stiles up out of the passenger seat, keeping the blanket wrapped around him and pulling it up over Stiles’ face slightly to protect him from the icy drops of rain still howling down. He opens the front door with his elbow and kicks it open and closed with his foot.

"Derek?" He hears Laura shout. "Is that you?"

Derek doesn’t reply, too preoccupied with carrying Stiles and avoiding hitting any of his limps on walls and doors as he makes his way into the kitchen. Laura meets him in the doorway, mouth open as if to speak, when her eyes land on the pile in his arms. She frowns for a moment, not hesitating or asking before she pulls the blanket back a bit and reveals the ashen white and bruised face.

"Oh my—" she gasps, hand coming to cover her mouth and the other hovering above Stiles, as if too scare to actually touch him. "Stiles— Derek—"

"Get out of the way, I want to put him down," Derek interrupts, pushing past her and into the kitchen. Peter is sitting at the table, a mug of loosely clasped in his hand. He looks up from where he’s pealing a banana when Derek walks in, and instantly his eyebrows fly to his hairline and his mouth opens in question.

Derek doesn’t let him speak.

"Move your things," he barks, nodding at the table. Peter scoops everything up quickly, not taking his eyes off Stiles in his arms.

"What have you done, Derek?" He asks, shoving the mugs in the sink.

"It wasn’t me. I found him like this, walking in the fucking streets," Derek says, laying Stiles down slowly, holding the back of his head in his palm to stop it from hitting against the wood of the table.

"Derek, what the hell is going on?"

"You have to help him," Derek replies, ignoring the question Laura practically shrieked in his ear. She looks at him like he’s gone mad. "Please, he’s hurt and—"

"Well _obviously!"_ She cries, "He needs a hospital, Derek!"

"We can’t— John might—"

"Derek, Stiles could be—" Peter tries to interrupt.

"Help me help him, or fuck off the both of you," Derek snarls. Both Laura and Peter stare at him for a moment, stunned, and exchange a silent glance at each other.

After a moment, Laura looks back at him. "Let me have a look at him."

She rounds the table to get closer, taking Stiles’ face in her hands as she looks at the bruises and swelling.

Peter comes to stand next to Derek, who’s watching with anxious breaths.

"You have a foul mouth on you, boy," Peter mutters.

"I’m sorry," Derek replies, colour flooding his cheeks. Peter rests a hand on his shoulder, a comforting gesture that is a clear forgiveness, understanding.

Laura pauses in her examining, for a moment, laying Stiles’ head down. She looks at Derek, "What’s wrong with his breathing?"

Before Derek can answer, Laura is pulling Stiles’ jumper and t-shirt up, which are both stuck together from the rain, to reveal his chest. In the bright lights of the kitchen, Stiles looks worse. His chest is a splatter of harsh purples and blacks, stark against the violent white of his skin. His stomach is an in-cave, his ribs standing out underneath the skin that is stretched tightly over the bones. Derek doesn’t know if it’s the shire sight of the boys clear malnourishment that shocks him most of the clear crookedness in some of his ribs.

"Some of his ribs are definitely fractured, if not broken," Laura tells them. "If he wants to avoid hospital, he’s going to have to be really careful for the next few months."

Derek scoffs - there is no way Stiles is going to be careful. He’s as reckless and destructive as a bull in a china shop.

"Definitely a concussion too," Laura goes on, feeling the back of Stiles’ head. "Who did this to him?"

"Who do you think?" Derek snaps, his arms crossed against his chest to hide the tremble in his hands.

"Derek, we don’t know John did this—"

"Are you kidding me? Who else would have done this!"

"Derek, you told us earlier that Stiles got into a fight with Matt Daehler—"

"Yes, but not like this! It was a scuffle, he barely got a busted lip. This is. . . this is. . ."

Laura is looking at him like he’s a lost child, the pity in her eyes as clear as day.

"What happened when you found him?"

"He was just walking along the road, stumbling and I got out of the car, shouted his name, and he. . . he just _dropped_ ," Derek explains. "I managed to half catch him but he was already passed out."

"Has he woken up since you found him?" Laura asks.

Derek shakes his head.

"Take him upstairs and get him out of his wet clothes," she says, pulling his t-shirt and jumper back down. "He’s got hypothermia already, we need to get him dry and warm."

Derek nods numbly, moving to pick Stiles up once more.

"Put him in some dry pyjamas, something thick and soft. Me and Peter will find some blankets."

"All right," Derek replies, gathering Stiles in his arms.

Laura watches him, shaking her head. "We need to get some food in him. He’s all damn skin and bone."

"He shouldn’t be that easy to carry," Peter adds, and he’s right. Stiles is tall, almost as tall as Derek, and even if he’s not built like him, he shouldn’t be this effortless to lift and carry around.

He takes Stiles upstairs and into his bedroom, laying him down slowly on the bed. He grabs some of his thick sweatpants, wool ski socks and his lacrosse hoodie from his wardrobe, all going to be far too big on Stiles, but thick enough to keep him warm. He careful as he manoeuvres Stiles out of his wet and damp jumper and t-shirt, still stuck together and coming off as one. Stiles may be unconscious, but Derek still doesn’t want to hurt him or make his ribs worse by jostling and moving him.

Laura comes in just as he gets Stiles’ jumper off with a towel and a blanket in her hands. "Peter’s finding us some more. We need to warm him up slowly to avoid him going into shock. Here," she passes him the towel, "dry him while I get his trousers off."

Derek takes the towel and pat-dries Stiles’ torso. Laura has got his trousers off by the time he’s done and helps move Stiles so he’s sitting upright, making it easier to slip the hoodie over his head. It’s so large it almost hangs off one shoulder, engulfing him completely like they’d wrapped him in a blanket as a burrito.

"Jesus," Laura whispers. "He’s always been thin, but this is _bad_."

"Lets worry more on keeping him alive and warm at the moment, yeah?" Derek replies. Laura shoots him a look but doesn’t mention it again.

He looks away when Laura changes Stiles’ underwear, feeling it’d be polite and respectful not to get an eye-full when Stiles is on deaths door. When he turns back, Laura has the sweatpants on and is tucking the ankles into the socks.

"All right, take him back downstairs. We’ll settle him on the couch so when he wakes up he can move around easy enough," Laura says.

Derek nods, carefully picking Stiles back up, cradling him against his chest like a small child, and carrying him downstairs. Peter is in the lounge, lighting the large fire in the middle of the room. There’s a blanket draped over the couch already, open and ready to place Stiles in, and other blankets are folded on the arm to wrap and lay over him. Derek places him slowly in the first blanket, laying the sides over him like an envelope and placing the other blankets on top. Laura adjusts his head so its cushioned comfortably on the cushions.

The room is warm, and after a while, Stiles begins to shiver and shake. Laura tells him that that’s a good sign, that Stiles is coming out of the hyperthermia stages and into the general cold stage, which is much better despite the interpretation that shivering is bad.

"It means he can feel the cold, Der," she explains. "It’s good. If he can feel the cold, it means he’s not completely numb."

The shaking lasts an hour before it disappears completely.

"We need to wake him," Laura says. It’s almost half 12. "He’s been out for over an hour. If I’m right and he has a concussion, we need to wake him regularly."

"Okay," Derek replies, moving from the chair he’d settled in, unable to tear his eyes off the sleeping teen. He crouches next to Stiles, who’s laying on his back, wrapped in blankets and oversized clothes. He gently shakes his shoulder, "Stiles?"

There’s no response, but Derek is almost not surprised. He shakes him again, no harder, but for longer. "Stiles, wake up. Come on, Stiles."

He almost misses the small sound, it’s so quiet and fragile.

"Come on, kiddo," Laura urges him. "Open your eyes for us."

His eyelashes flutter, his breath hitches as if he’s becoming aware of the trauma his body has gone through.

"That’s it," Laura whispers.

Suddenly, Stiles’ eyes snap open, his breathe catching with panic. His eyes are wide, wild and scared, and he looks around like a corner animal. He makes to get up, but both Laura and Derek grab his shoulders to keep him down.

"Stiles, don’t. You’re safe, you’re with us," Laura tells him. "Don’t move, kiddo, you might hurt yourself more. You’re pretty banged up."

Stiles opens his mouth, slumping back on the couch bonelessly. "I. . . w-what—"

His voice is a painful rasp, barely a croak.

"I’ll get you some water, hold on," Laura says, leaping up and dashing from the room.

Peter comes over then, leaning over Derek’s shoulder to look at the younger teen. "Gave us quite a fright, little man. How’re you feeling?"

Stiles blinks. "F’cking hurts."

Peter chuckles. "I’m not surprised. Laura’s diagnosed you with broken ribs and a nasty concussion. You’re damn stupid for walking around in the rain like that."

"Didn’t 'ave a choice," Stiles murmurs, words slurred with exhaustion. His eyes are so sunken and bruised they’re almost disappearing into their sockets. He looks more than just physically exhausted, he looks mentally worn down to the bone.

Laura comes running in, passing Stiles the glass of water. His hand shakes when he lifts it to his lips, but he sips slowly.

"What hurts, Stiles?"

"'M head 'nd chest," Stiles replies, blinking lethargically.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?"

Stiles shakes his head, scrunching up his eyes a moment later as if the movement hurt — Derek suspects it most likely did.

"Do you want some Tylenol? It will help with the pain?"

At that, Stiles nods very slightly. Laura dashes off again and comes back within minutes, handing it to Stiles who swallows it back with no hesitation.

"Can I go back to sleep now?" Stiles whispers, eyes already closing. "I don’t think I can stay awake much longer."

"Sure, kiddo," Laura smiles. "But we’re gonna keep waking you up."

"Mhm," Stiles hums, "Wh’tever."

Moments later, he is asleep.

The three Hale’s move back and relax, now knowing Stiles is okay - or as okay as he can be.

"I’ll stay with him tonight," Derek says after a minute. "You guys should go to bed, you both have work in the morning."

"You have school, Derek," Laura replies.

"It’s the last day before Christmas break, I’m sure I can miss it. I need. . . Stiles needs someone to be here with him."

"You’ll wake him up every three hours and ask him basic, easy questions. Okay?"

Derek nods, " _Yes_ , Laura, I know what to do for someone with a concussion."

Laura nods, and her expression is pained as she stares at Derek deep in the eyes.

"All right. It’s almost one, so wake him at four, and then at seven. I’ll be up by then, so I’ll speak to him too."

Peter and Laura disappear a few minutes later, retreating upstairs to sleep. Derek settles back into the arm chair, unable to take his eyes off the sleeping form in front of him. Now he’s alone, in the silence and stillness of the room, the events on the evening come crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. The air is suddenly too thin, his lungs too tight.

Stiles almost _died_.

The statement feels like a punch to the chest, winding him. Stiles looks so ill, so ruined and raw to the bone.

Derek doesn’t sleep. He stays awake, sitting in the chair with his arms resting on his knees. The fire goes out, but he doesn’t get up to keep it alive.

When he wakes Stiles up at four, he blinks at him for a minute, as if finding his bearings.

"Hey," he says.

Derek smiles. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

Stiles blinks sleepily, "M' good but cold."

"Well, you did get yourself hypothermia," Derek replies blandly. "You're lucky you didn't die."

"I'm fine."

"You're not—" Derek cuts himself off, forcing himself not to snap. Stiles is hurting, and he's going to deny any pain he's in because that's just who he is. "Can I get you anything?"

"Some more blankets? It's really cold in here."

"You're always cold," Derek humours, looking down at him. "I don't think we have anymore blankets but I can. . . sit with you? If you want— if it helps—"

"Sure," Stiles cuts him off softly. "You're always warm."

"O. . . Okay," Derek murmurs, voice wavering. "Can you sit up?"

Stiles raises an eyebrow before he nods jerkily. "If you help me."

"All right," Derek stands, helping Stiles sit up on the coach. He lets out a cry, his breath becoming a wheeze as his ribs move and burn under his skin.

"F-f-f-f- _fuck!"_ Stiles hitches, gasping. Tears glisten in his eyes and he clamps them closed. "Shit— I can't—"

"Sorry, sorry," Derek repeats, apologising so fast it's a blur of words. "I'm sorry. Shit, are you— I'm sorry. One more moment. Okay, okay I'm done. We're done."

Panicking and sputtering, Derek quickly settles so he's inclined on the couch, Stiles laying between his legs and against his chest.

Stiles uneven breaths are coming in short, hitched pants. He's shaking against Derek, with pain and adrenaline as he calms himself down. Derek knows that must have hurt like a bitch, and guilt floods his stomach because he did that.

"I'm sorry," he says again, mouth by Stiles' ear. The askew strands of his now dry dark hair tickle his cheek and chin.

"It's okay," Stiles murmurs, breathless but genuine. "It's alright. This feels much better."

"Good," Derek exhales. "That's. . . That's good."

Stiles slumps against him, boneless and breaths coming calmer, though they're still raspy and crackling in his chest.

"You should get some more sleep. I'll wake you again in a few hours. Laura said you need to because of your concussion."

Stiles screws his eyes shut and whines, "Just let me sleep."

"Sleep now."

And he does.

 

Derek doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes to a hand shaking his shoulder. He snaps up a moment too late, realisation dawning on him in panic.

"Calm down, it’s okay," someone - Laura - says above him. He meets her kind green eyes. "You're fine. It's only seven. I was just going to wake him up again before I go to work."

"I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's all right," Laura tells him, crouching down beside the couch. She looks at Stiles on his chest, who's head is slightly tilted and limp with sleep. "How was he during the night?"

"All right, coherent at least. He said he was cold, so I laid with him."

"That’s good," Laura smiles. "That’s good, Der. He seem’s all right. His breathing doesn’t sound as bad as it did when you brought him home." She feels his forehead and hums, "He doesn’t feel hot either. That’s good, no fever."

"Is that normal?"

"It can occur sometimes," Laura replies. She begins to shake Stiles’ shoulder, who awakes immediately, groaning and breath hitching.

He cracks one eye open. "M’nin’."

"Morning to you too," Laura flashes a crooked smile. "Glad to see you’re still with us."

"Don’t be so dramatic, Laur," Stiles murmurs.

Instantly, Laura’s face turns sour. She looks serious, like a disapproving mother. "Stiles, you’re a damn idiot, d’you know that?"

"Yes, I am told frequently."

"Well, obviously it’s not sinking in! You’re seriously hurt."

"I know, okay?" Stiles sighs. "I can feel that in my broken fucking ribs."

"Do you want to go to hospital now?" Laura’s voice is soft again, caring and worried, her moment of mother-ness passed.

Stiles shakes his head. "No. I’m fine, honest. Just leave me here."

Laura nods. She looks to Derek, "Let him doze all day, yeah? If he complains his head hurts, let him have some more Tylenol only after he eats something."

Derek can see Stiles’ eyes have slipped closed, but one cracks open when his eyebrow curves and rises, "Are you trying to say something, Laura, darling?"

Laura shoots him a heat-less glare. "Stay warm and stay hydrated. If I find out you have done anything other than resting, I will beat your ass black and blue."

"Hmm," Stiles hums, eyes closing again. "Maybe then it’ll match my chest."

Something hurt and scared flitters across Laura’s face so fast it’s gone within a second, but Derek knows exactly what it was because he felt it too.

She looks at him, "I’ll be home just after lunch. If you need anything, please call me. I’ll have my phone in my pocket, just call."

"I will," Derek nods. "We’ll be fine."

Her eyes flicker down to Stiles before returning to Derek. "Keep him safe."

Derek doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nods.

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! there might be a delay with the next chapter. i have a lot of college work due in this month so writing is taking backseat priority i'm afraid. i'll keep updating as often as i can though <3


	7. puzzle with a piece that doesn't fit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets pretend it hasn't taken me almost 2 months to update and appreciate that I'm a college student with two jobs and a very busy social life and I also got a new dog so almost all of my attention is now directed at my new little angel cake (who I think is beginning to dislike me from all the attention I give her).
> 
> but none the less, I have finished this chapter and it's bad but I'm proud that I actually have it done. this chapter is choppy, it's rushed and it's messy and there are so many plot holes I won't be surprised if you don't make it to the end, so I do apologise. I genially want to give you guys good content to read, so if its bad or things don't make sense please comment them so I can go back and change it. honestly, I'm forgetting my own plot!
> 
> enjoy, angel faces <3

Derek opens his eyes to the living room. It takes him a moment to realise he's laying on the couch, his legs too long and hanging over the rest and his arm flopping onto the floor where it's slipped off the couch cushions. He closes his eyes, chasing off the evaporating remains of sleep before he opens them again and pushes himself up. He moves, and instantly he notices something.

Reaching up, his fingers brush something in his forehead. Frowning and scrunching up his face, he grabs it and pulls. It comes off with a sting, and finds a piece of paper and tape in his hand.

 _In the garden_ , it reads, in scrawly, almost script-like handwriting, _come out when you've woken up from your beauty sleep_.

Derek finds himself torn between smiling and rolling his eyes. Pushing himself to his feet, he placed the paper on the coffee table and made his way into the kitchen. Truth be told, his eyes instantly fall on the figure sitting on the back door step, dwarfed in one of Derek's jumpers that are several sizes too big and sweatpants that Laura has had to badly and quickly sew up to stop them from sliding over his hips completely.

"Did you get my note?" Stiles asks.

"Of course I got it," Derek replies, going straight to the coffee machine. "You taped it to my forehead while I was sleeping."

Stiles doesn't say anything, but Derek can _hear_ him smirking.

"You shouldn't be up, y'know," Derek goes on. "You should be resting."

"I’ve been resting for the last two days. Laying down can do just as much damage as standing," Stiles replies. "And besides, I’m sitting down, _technically_ that counts as resting."

Derek rolls his eyes. "You’re an idiot."

Stiles makes a feigned gasp which Derek knows probably pulled at the wounds in his chest, but he doesn’t say anything about it - Stiles has protested enough during the last few days and Derek is not going to baby him into not injuring himself further. Derek's been sleeping downstairs with him, while Stiles says his head feels better, he's still got less colour in his skin than normal and Laura keeps telling Derek to watch out for concussion symptoms.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Derek asks as he stirs his sugar in the coffee.

He sees Stiles give a one-shoulder shrug. "Alright. No worse than yesterday. I'll be fit as a fiddle and out of your hair in no time, don't you worry, big guy."

"I'm not asking you to get out of our hair, Stiles," Derek sighs. He hasn't breached the subject yet with Stiles about the culprit who gave him his bruises, and he's kind of scared to start. "You should stay here until you're completely healed."

"There's no need. Honest. As soon as I feel like I can walk a flight of stairs, Laura will stop mother-henning me and I'll go back."

Derek tried not to focus on the fact that Stiles didn't call his own house his _home_.

"You know," Derek starts, rallying himself for what he's about to do, "you still haven't told me who gave you the bruises."

"Yes I have," Stiles replies easily. "I told you I got into a fight with Daehler. Everyone saw it."

"Yes, you did, but I know he didn't beat you that badly."

Stiles' head whips around. "He didn't beat me at all!"

"Really? Who was it then that beat you so bad you almost died at my damn feet?" Derek snaps. Stiles eyes are wide, bright and furious but then, they soften, dampen with vulnerability. "Stiles, I know it wasn't Matt who gave you _all_ them bruises."

"You don't know shit, Hale."

"Oh, it's 'Hale' now?" Derek asks, crossing his arms. He narrows his eyes, "Is that what you do, Stiles? To make yourself more intimidating? I'm not one of your fucking drug pals, so don't pull that shit with me."

"I'm not pulling anything."

"No, you're just lying through your teeth."

"It's none of your fucking business!"

"It is because you almost _died_ and we saved you! You would have been nothing but a teenagers frozen dead body by the morning if I hadn't found you!"

"So what, you think I _owe_ you or some shit?" Stiles seethes. "There's nothing to tell, so drop it, will you?"

"If there's nothing to tell, then why can't you admit who did it?"

Stiles stares at him for a moment, gaze burning and whiskey eyes sharp. Derek can see his jaw clenching and unclenching.

"Fuck you, man," he says finally, but all the fight has gone and his voice cracks painfully. Derek can see he's struggling to contain the emotion he's bottled up, the carry on this tough-guy act he's been playing like dress up.

"When you're ready, you know I'm here," Derek says, shifting the mug between his hands. "Until then, you should have a shower and let me wrap your ribs."

"Are you telling me I stink?"

"Yes, you stink. Now go shower, I'll get some more clean pyjamas for you."

"I can put my own clothes back on, I'm sure they're dry," Stiles replies, making no move to get up from the back step.

Derek waves a hand. "It's fine. They're probably really dirty from when you laid on the sidewalk anyway."

Stiles nods and looks down, almost sheepishly. "Do you. . . uh, do you have any clothes that will fit me?"

"You can look in Cora's closet if you want."

Stiles' eyes widen.

"Uh, on second thought, the baggy sweats are just fine."

Derek hums, taking a sip of his coffee. "That's what I thought. Will you be alright showering?"

Stiles looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

Instantly, the tops of Derek's ears heat and he can feel the red dusting his cheeks.

"I didn’t— I meant will you be okay because of your _ribs!_ I meant your ribs! I didn’t— stop smirking at me like that!"

Stiles laughs, and then gasps and clutches his chest. "Ow, ow, ow. That was so mean. Don't make me laugh, you monster."

Derek rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. His stomach is twisting.

"Dude, stop blushing."

Derek can feel his neck getting hot. He doesn't _blush_.

"I'm not. Go take your damn shower," he says, and he begins to walk out into the living room.

"Hey!" Stiles shouts from the back step. "You're gonna leave a cripple all alone? What kind of nurse are you?!"

"Jog on, Stiles!" Derek shouts back, but he knows there's no heat in his words - he’s too embarrassed to be mean.

Stiles takes a long time in the shower. Derek tries to pretend he's not watching the clock the entire time instead of studying his science homework, and is going to blame it on the worry that Stiles could have hurt himself even more and not because the idea of Stiles in _his_ shower is swirling around in his head. He's confused when it comes to his feelings for Stiles, mostly because he has no idea what he feels. Stiles makes him nervous, but also makes him feel more relaxed than ever. He makes Stiles frustrated, and angry, and scared and anxious. But he also makes him feel soft, like he has a purpose, makes him feel _alive_. He likes hanging around Stiles, he's  _fun_ and while Isaac, Erica and Boyd are fun, they're not Stiles.

Derek isn't one for being scared, but sometimes his feelings scare him.

 

"Can I borrow your phone?"

Derek looks up from where he's scribbling in his notebook, his half-minded studying for science once again interrupted. He looks across the table to where Stiles is sitting, doodling on his own paper that he was supposedly meant to be doing Harris' English work. His hair is still wet from the shower, damp and curly on his forehead like washed up strands of seaweed on a white beach. The bruises look worse, his skin so pale and colourless now that the bags under his eyes are the bruises on his skin are mixing into one. He's huddled up in Laura's BHHS hoodie from when she graduated and a pair of Derek's sweats with a hairband wrapped around the loose fabric to stop them from falling down. Derek didn't realise how thin Stiles really was until he came downstairs clutching the waistline of the pants.

"Sure," Derek replies. His eyes follow Stiles as he carefully gets up, gingerly cradling his chest. "Who are you calling?"

"Nosey, aren’t you?" Stiles quips, raising a eyebrow and a lopsided smirk. He goes to the wall, leaning against it as he pulls the head off the wall and jabs the buttons loudly. "I’m calling Deuc. I’m not going to be able to make my rounds this week and he’s going to want to know why."

"Do you really need to justify yourself?" Derek asks defensively. "It’s not like it’s an actual job."

"Deuc deserves to know if I’m going to show up or not," Stiles replies, tone hot and sharp. He sighs then, holding the phone in his hand but not allowing it to ring yet. He looks down at his sock covered feet, "Derek, I know you don’t like it, and I know you don’t get it, but. . . Deuc deserves more than anyone why I’m not around at the moment. He cares, believe it or not. And just because it’s not an official job doesn’t mean I don’t have a duty to turn up."

Derek nods, not in acceptance but in truce. He doesn't want to keep arguing with Stiles - it's clear they both have completely different opinions of right and wrong when it comes to Stiles' lifestyle.

"Don’t run up the bill," he says, "Peter’s been funny about it since Laura got home."

Stiles smirks, jabbing the last number and bringing the phone to his ear. He leans back against the wall, crossing one arm over his chest and reclining his head back, lifting his chin as he slouches as much as he can with his ribs broken to shards.

It’s a long pause before the phone appears to pick up on the other end.

"Ennis. It’s Stiles, is Deuc there?" Stiles answers. He pauses, "Cool. Can you put him on?… Yeah, I’m fine… Yeah, I know. Somethings. . . _happened_ and I can’t come over for a while. Can you please put Deuc on?… Thanks."

He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes, chewing his bottom lip in evident anxiety. Derek flashes him a tight-lipped smile before he forces himself to look away and back down at his science work. He scribbles barely two words before Stiles is talking again.

"Deuc, hey… No, no, I’m okay. I’m at a friends house, I just wanted to call to say I’m not going to be making my rounds this week… I know, believe me, I don’t want to but—… No, nothings happened, I just…" Stiles’ voice goes quiet and weak, "I don’t want to explain yet. Please, Deuc, believe me."

Derek can’t resist himself any longer and looks up, and is surprised when he see’s the vulnerability in Stiles’ expression. Ever since that night, ever since Derek really discovered what Stiles has grown up with behind closed doors, Derek has noticed that Stiles doesn’t really address what truly happens to him and instead brushes it off as if it’s a cuff on the wrists for forgetting his homework. But now, with the expression of a fearful child shining clearly in his eyes, Derek finally sees that Stiles knows exactly what is happening to him.

"Of course," Stiles continues, his tone lighter. Derek wishes he knew what Deucalion is saying, what he is replying to Stiles with. "Yeah, I’ll be back next week for sure. I just gotta lay low for a bit…" his laugh suddenly fills the room, "No, it’s not like that, Deuc. You know criminal record isn’t my style… Okay, cool. Thanks for understanding… Yeah… Yeah, sure. Say hi to everyone for me… Thanks, Deuc. Bye, man."

He puts the phone back on the wall and slumps back against it, closing his eyes and resting his head on the wall.

"You alright?" Derek asks.

Stiles nods.

"You sure?"

"He’s gonna ask questions," Stiles murmurs, opening his eyes and staring ahead unseeingly. "There’s no way he’s going to let this go."

"Is that a bad thing?" Derek asks. "This isn’t something you should really 'let go'."

Stiles looks at him with an expression Derek can’t read, and that frustrates him more than not being able to hear both sides of his phone conversation. Stiles looks down at his hands, quiet for a long moment.

"He's fine though," Stiles says, pushing off he wall and coming back to the table. Derek can see in his demeanour, the way he holds himself and his tone and face that the nonchalant, tough-guy is back. For a moment, he was vulnerable, he was scared, he was showing how he truly felt from his fathers actions. _That_ was Stiles, but now all Derek can see is the delinquent, trouble-maker sheriffs kid. "He said I can go back whenever I want, for me to take it easy and keep him posted."

"Seems like a nice guy."

Stiles chuckles, his expression pinched with pain.

"You sound surprised," Stiles observes.

"Well, he _is_ a drug dealer, and a known vicious one at that."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "He's not 'vicious'."

"Stiles, he sliced open someone's _throat_."

"The guy was refusing to pay for months of late debt!" Stiles defends. "Not going to lie, the guy completely deserved it."

Derek gapes. "I'm going to pretend I'm certain you were joking about that."

Stiles rolls his eyes again. "He has a reputation to uphold otherwise the business wth flop like a dead fish. That's how businesses like that work. No one is going to pay on time if they're not scared of being late."

"It's still messed up."

Stiles reclines back as much as his busted chest will allow him. "A lot of things in the world is messed up, but they still happen."

Derek fiddles with his pen for a moment.

"Does. . . does Deucalion know about your father?" He asks.

"What do you mean?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You know exactly what I mean."

Stiles stares at him, levelling and challenging. He sighs, shoulders losing their tension. The defeated posture returns. "I’ve never told him, but the man isn’t a fool - he knows something happens. I always tell him the busts on my face are from fights at school, which they sometimes are, so it’s not a total lie."

Derek nods, slightly satisfied - Deucalion knows, of some sort, what happens to Stiles. Anyone who knows, anyone who has any idea of what happens, Derek knows will have Stiles’ back.

 

Stiles doesn't go to school, his ribs making his movements rigid and slow. Laura checks them every day, telling to take it easy but there is only so much time Stiles Stilinski will spend resting before he becomes agitated and bored. Derek manages to wean three days off school before Peter tells him he can’t skip anymore without risking falling behind - or looking too suspicious. The Sheriff could be looking for Stiles, after all, despite him not putting out a _Missing Persons_ report, so Peter tells Derek to not try and act like the person who’s hiding him from his father.

Despite Stiles being bored (and complaining about it whenever he gets the chance), he listens to Laura and Derek’s strict rule to stay inside the house. The Hale mansion is in the woods, but it can still be seen and watched if the Sheriff followed any suspicions that they were helping Stiles. Busted ribs are serious too, and Stiles can't do much before he hurts himself even more, so it's easier to keep him inside the house as there is only so much damage he can do there.

On the fourth day, Stiles tries to leave at dinner time. Laura is up from the table so fast as almost trips over the chair leg.

"Where are you going?" She shouts.

Stiles freezes in the hallway.

"Work."

"Derek said you phoned Deucalion on Wednesday, I thought you were off the hook," Peter says. They're home for once, even Cora - who seems to have been avoiding home since Stiles came.

"I got a shift at the record store," Stiles says, plucking up his jacket from the hooks in the hallway.

"Uh, no," Laura steps out and snatches the jacket out of his hands. "Don't even think about trying to get that on, Mister. You'll hurt yourself even more. Come on, sit down and eat. You're not going to work."

"I got to. I can't expect Isaac to cover for me—"

"Uh, yes you can. _Isaac_ does not have busted ribs, therefore Isaac can cover your shift at work."

"All I'll be doing is standing at the till," Stiles argues as Laura ushers him into the kitchen. "I can sit, if that makes you feel better."

"Well, if it's that easy I'm sure Isaac won't struggle doing it," Laura replies as she grabs him a plate of dinner and places at the table. She motions exaggeratedly at the place before sitting down.

"I'll phone Isaac," Derek says, standing up.

"Thanks, Derek, Laura replies. She looks at Stiles still standing and points from him to the chair. "Sit, and don't make me force-feed you like an _actual_ child."

Stiles rolls his eyes and drops down in the chair as much as he can without his ribs aching in protest.

"I'm losing so much money not being able to work," Stiles murmurs, picking up his fork and moving his potatoes around on the plate.

"A couple of weeks money isn't a loss if going to work causes you to puncture a lung," Laura scolds.

At the phone, Derek punches in Isaac's home number and it rings almost to the end before the phone picks up.

"Y'ello," Isaac answers.

"Isaac, it Derek," he replies. "Listen, is Stiles due to work this evening at the shop?"

"Yeah, man. Boss is outta town tonight for an anniversary. Stiles said he'd cover for me a couple of weeks ago." After a pause, Isaac adds, "Is everything okay?"

"Stiles can't work tonight. He's. . ." Derek looks into the dining room where Stiles and Laura are arguing about something. "His dad hurt him real bad this time, Isaac. I. . . He was barely alive when I found him. He's been staying with us for a few days, and he really can't come to work."

"Shit," Isaac breathes. "Shit. Is he alright? Sheriff is such a damn asshole. I had no idea, man."

"Yeah, well the man hasn't even put out a missing persons report despite Stiles being here for days."

"Of course he hasn't, the guy probably doesn't want to admit his son has gone M.I.A because he busted him up. The Sheriff might not even has noticed he's gone, Derek. If the guys doing nights he might not have been home, and who knows how often Stiles stays out when his dad is home. They could go weeks without seeing each other - they have, a few times."

Derek feels foolish for not realising. Of course the Sheriff isn’t going to put out a report for people to look for Stiles. The man probably doesn’t even _want_ his son to come home. Putting out a report for Stiles will cause people to ask questions, and while the Sheriff has been able to use his title and the trust of the towns people to cover his lies and the bruises he leaves on his son, questions are still a red flashing flag.

"You’re right," Derek murmurs, rubbing his face. "Fuck, you’re right, Isaac. That worthless piece of shit probably isn’t even _looking_ for his missing son."

Isaac sighs down the phone. "Don’t let this get to your head, Derek. Whatever’s busted on Stiles will heal and the kid is just gonna go back to exactly how it was last week. It’s just the way it is."

"It’s not right."

"We've been here before. It’s not your business, Derek. Don’t let yourself get in too deep or this shit will turn around on you. If Stiles is alright with it, you have to be too."

"No way," Derek hisses. "No way am I just going to be 'alright' with a man beating his son shitless for no reason!"

"Maybe there is a reason, Derek. You have no idea what goes on within those walls, but you do know what Stiles does outside. He makes trouble at school, he gets into fights, he sells _drugs_ , for fuck-sake. The kid isn’t exactly an angel child, is he?" Isaac breaks off to sigh again. "Look, Derek. I’m not saying what the Sheriff does is right, and I’m not saying Stiles deserves it, but you’re not the only person in this town who knows about the Sheriff. You’ll be surprised how many people how he’s an abusive ass to his son."

"They let him get away with it."

"You’ll also be surprised how many people in this town hit their own kids," Isaac goes on. "The Sheriff just takes it too far."

"My parents never hit me."

"Your parents were good people, Derek. Not a lot of people in this town are."

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that.

"I’ll cover him at the shop. Just let me know when he can come back, yeah?"

"Okay," Derek replies, feeling defeated. "Thank you, Isaac."

"No problem, man. Tell Stiles to heal up fast."

"I will."

Back at the table, Derek’s appetite is diminished and he can barely stop himself from staring at Stiles.

_It’s just the way it is._

Isaac comes over the next day, Erica and Boyd in tow. They claim they’re sick of Derek not coming out anymore so they’re going to go home with him to spend some time, but Derek secretly knows that Isaac wants to come over and see Stiles. A surprising amount of people at school notice Stiles' absence, and Derek has to lie to himself if he wants to believe it's not more to do with Stiles' lack of dealing compared to their actual concern for his welfare.

Stiles isn’t surprised to see Isaac, Erica and Boyd walk in with Derek, but he looks to the door as if to see if anyone else is coming in after.

 _Jackson_ , Derek’s mind supplies. Stiles may not be afraid of Jackson, but it’s clear he’s in no condition now to fight the guy twice his size.

"Hey, Stiles," Isaac smiles at the kid, who’s sitting on the couch, having been ordered by Laura after he woke up the first day not to lay down anymore. "How are you, little man?"

"Fine. Oh, uh. . . thanks for covering me at the shop. I must owe you loads of shifts by now."

Isaac waves a hand, "Don’t sweat it, man. Your face looks like purple patchwork but Derek said you also busted up your ribs, right?"

"Yeah, it’s not fun," Stiles grumbles, making Isaac chuckle. "Can’t even fucking lay down."

"Aw, poor little baby," Erica coos, coming over and ruffling his hair.

"Piss off," Stiles yelps, but it’s futile - even before Erica touched it, Stiles’ hair was resembling closer to a birds nest than a head of human hair.

From then on, the trio seem to almost adopt Stiles even more than they already had, treating him more like a little brother as the days go on. They come over every day, and in the end Derek starts to suspect they - Erica, particularly - only comes over to see Stiles _instead_ of Derek.

Derek kind of likes it though, because Stiles needs some people in his life other than the Hale’s and Scott McCall to care for him.

 

Stiles sleeps on the couch, but Derek often gets up in the night to use the bathroom and sees the downstairs lights still on. He knew Stiles didn't sleep, he's gathered that from the amounts of times he's seen Stiles still around after a night at the youth club skating around on his board, but he never imagined Stiles being the same if he was in a house. Derek never hears a sound from downstairs though, apart from the sofa creak of the back door opening and closing.

 

A week later, one of the teachers stop Derek on his way out of class. Stiles hasn’t left the Hale house for over 10 days, which means it’s been over 10 days since he was last at school. Derek isn’t surprised when his history teacher asks if he knows where Stiles Stilinski is, however, he is surprised that the teacher asked _him_. As far as Derek is aware, he has never openly hung around with Stiles in school, and it’s only been a few times out in public.

Derek’s answer is a complete lie, but what else can he do? Admit that Stiles is hollered up in his house on bedrest because his father used him as an emotional outlet and beat him to a brink of his life? No, he can certainly not.

"I have no idea," Derek replies - he’s never been a great liar, so he tries to keep it simple. "I don’t see him around much in school."

 _Technically_ , he thinks, _not a lie_.

The teacher hums. "I suppose. It’s your sister he spends time with, isn’t it? All the teachers are trying to track him down, if he misses much more school he could potentially be expelled - which I am sure he does not want."

"No, I’m sure he doesn’t want that," Derek replies uncertainly.

"Well, if you see him around, tell him to get his ass back into classes or his future will be in huge jeopardy."

"I will, thank you, sir."

"Have a good evening, Derek."

"You too."

He meets Cora in the car park and snags her arm to drag her to his car. If the teachers are suspecting Stiles, Derek needs to act as normal as possible, and dragging Cora home is normal.

"I was going to go around Heathers tonight, y'know," Cora grumbles when they're on the road.

Derek frowns. "Heather? But you guys have hung out like two times since Freshman."

"Yeah, well there's no one else to hang around with at the moment. Stiles is M.I.A, Scott is glued to Allison' side and I can barely handle Scott alone _with_ Stiles there, without him it's just a nightmare, and Erica and that lot are always at ours."

"Stiles isn't M.I.A, he's at our house, Cora?" Derek looks between her and the road briefly. "Cora, what's going on? You've been acting funny ever since Stiles came to ours. I thought you guys were best friends?"

"We are."

"Then why are you avoiding him like the plague?"

Cora is looking down at her hands. Her jaw is clenched so tight Derek's surprised her teeth haven't shattered from pressure.

"Cora?"

"I just fucking hate looking at him when he's like that," she says lowly, voice barely above a whisper.

Derek frowns again. "Looking like what?"

"Covered in damn bruises!" Cora shrieks. "He looks like a fucking boxer who lost a fight and I  _hate_ it because I know what's going on and he won't tell me, and he acts like it's nothing but it's  _not nothing_ because he almost died! He almost _died_ this time, Derek, and I'm so damn scared for him and it makes me so angry that he won't acknowledge this the way it is. I just hate it!"

"Cora. . ." Derek says, but really, he's stunned. He never knew how much Cora knew about Stiles and his father, but he hadn't wanted to discuss it in front of her. He always tried to reason that she's a kid, but now he thinks about it, she's the same age as Stiles. 

"I just. . ." she chokes, and Derek realises that she's crying. "He's my best friend, and he's getting hurt and I can't stop it. And every time I look at him, all I can see are those bruises and it just makes me so  _angry_."

"I know," Derek says, "I know, Cora, because I feel the same. I hate it, it makes me angry too, it makes me want to run to the Sheriff and beat the lights out of him but also hit some sense into Stiles. He knows it's wrong, he knows what's happening isn't  _right_ , but I think the only way for Stiles to cope is to pretend it's normal, that it doesn't hurt him. It's a coping mechanism."

Cora sniffs. "You sound like Laura."

Derek smiles. "It's what Laura told me. I wanted to go to the Sheriff's house and give him a taste of his own medicine, but Laura stopped me. Stiles isn't an idiot, he knows his father is an ass, but he's grown up with this, he's made it normal for himself to cope with it."

"It's not right."

Derek feels almost relieved to hear someone suffering with the same inward turmoil like him. Someone who can't just roll over and let this be.

"It's not, and we're going to make it right, but for now we just need to make sure Stiles heals, and that he's safe."

They're at the house. Laura and Peter's cars are here. Derek turns the engine off and looks at Cora again: her eyes are red and puffy, cheeks hot with blush.

"Shutting him out isn't going to help anyone. If anything, it will push him back to his father."

Cora's eyes widen. "I don't want that. I don't, Derek. I just. . . he looks. . ."

"I know," Derek says. "But bruises will fade, actions won't. So think about what you're doing."

Cora bites her bottom lip and nods.

Things are a little easier inside the house from then one. That one conversation heals whatever rift Cora placed between her and Stiles and they're as close as siblings again - much to Peter's dismay (although Derek suspects he secretly loves their friendship). 

 

Stiles knows broken ribs take six weeks to heal. He knows this, but that doesn’t stop him from becoming frustrated when he isn’t feeling back to normal after two weeks. He hates moving in pain, sitting in pain. He hates not being able to get up and down easily, or being able to actually _lie_ down because apparently he has to sleep sitting up now he isn’t completely incoherent from a concussion - which just _sucks_.

Stiles spends a lot of time alone while he’s healing. He appreciates all the Hale’s do, but they can’t put their entire lives on hold for him - and he certainly doesn’t expect them too. Stiles enjoys the freedom of having a house to himself and not having to constantly watch the clock or the door in hyper vigilance for when his father comes home.

Not going to school is weird, and he tries not to make it obvious how much he misses working with Deucalion. More than anything, he misses going to the youth centre, drinking vodka mixers or riding around town while it sleeps on his skateboard, smoking through a box of straight cigarettes like a chimney.

But most of the time, Stiles is now alone. He spends a lot of time, once he’s able to sit on his butt with his knees folded upwards, on the house back step, overlooking the huge back garden and beyond that, the endless sea of trees. The Hale house fits Beacon Hills like an odd button on a coat. The house is too huge, too grand and too majestic for the small, rustic, rundown suburban town it’s become. The house certainly isn’t new - and Stiles was more than fascinated to hear about the long, long history of the house back to when it was first built dated in the 1800’s. It makes Stiles’ house look like a shoebox left out in the rain.

On the back step, Stiles spends most of his time drawing. It’s the only thing he can do, the only thing that distracts him from thinking about the reason why he’s here - the reason why he can’t breathe without his chest feeling like it’s pulling on all of his nerves, or why he can’t go to the youth centre and make some money selling pot to teenagers, or why he can’t ride his skateboard around town and lose himself in his mixtape.

On the 10th day, Stiles seems to have lost track of time and is still on the back step, sketchbook in his lap, pencil flying across the page on a half-finished portrait drawing of Erica, who’s unruly curls are threatening to be the death of Stiles’ patience, when the front door opens and closes.

Stiles does startle when he hears the bang of someone dropping something on the table behind him, and he whips around as fast as he can with busted ribs, making sure to move his whole body to avoid twisting.

He finds Laura standing by the dining table, a brown paper bag of groceries on the table and her handbag hanging off her shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo," she says, already unpacking. "How’s your day been?"

"What’s the time?"

"Almost four."

"Damn," Stiles whispers. "Didn’t realise it was so late."

"Losing track of time again, Stiles?"

Stiles flips her off and goes back to drawing. 10 minutes later, Laura is dropping down beside him.

She lets out a moan. "Ugh, remind me to make Derek do all the grocery shopping from now on."

"You don’t want that," Stiles replies without looking up or stopping his pencil movement. "If Derek did the shopping, you’d be living off steaks, vegetables and chips for the rest of your life."

"Ugh," she groans again, exaggeratedly loud. "Why are physical people so _weird?"_

Stiles chuckles - or at least, chuckles as much as he can with healing ribs.

"How’s the healing? Your face is looking better."

"Eh."

"Just 'eh'?"

"Not healing fast enough."

"It’s going to take six weeks, Stiles, whether you like it or not."

"Well, I don’t like it."

"Well, _deal_ with it. I have enough with Cora whining about everything that exists, I don’t need you too."

"Hey! I have _reasons_ to whine!"

"No excuses," Laura teases, flicking him on the nose. She looks down at the drawing. "That’s really good. Erica?"

"Yeah. She’s gonna be bald in a minute if I can’t get her fucking curls right."

Laura laughs, "No, I think it looks really good. They’re meant to be messy."

"They’re also meant to look _real_."

Laura rolls her eyes. "You’re too hard on yourself."

"Critical evaluation."

"More like just _criticism_ ," Laura corrects. "Oh, and _what_ are those?"

Stiles doesn’t have a chance to ask what she’s on about before she is snagging the half-empty box of straights from underneath his pencil case.

Stiles’ mouth falls open. "Uh. . . for emotional support?"

Laura raises one eyebrow, sharp and pointed and _pissed_.

"You’re a fucking menace, you know that right?"

Stiles flashes her a shit-eating grin. "That’s just how to like me."

Laura rolls her eyes again and, to Stiles’ surprise, plucks a straight out of the box and puts it between her lips. She picks up his lighter and ignites the end, all the while Stiles’ mouth is low and hanging agape.

"No way," he breathes. "I didn’t know you _smoked!"_

"Only when I’m at college," she replies, taking a drag and exhaling the smoke. "Don’t tell the others. They don’t know."

"I won’t," Stiles assures. "Any reason why you’re smoking one now?"

"Because I’m meant to have gone back to college a few days ago and I miss them."

Stiles frowns. "Why. . . why haven’t you gone back?"

"Because if I leave you alone with Derek, Cora and Peter there’s a fat ass chance you’re not gonna heal," she pauses to take another drag and looks out over the garden. "Look, Stiles, I know I’m not around often but I’m not stupid, I know what this town is doing to you and I need you to make me a promise."

Stiles doesn’t say anything, instead he watches Laura, who doesn’t break her gaze with the trees.

"I need you to promise me that you’re going to ignore all the stuff people have told you about your future and do what _you_ want to do, because what other people say about you is bullshit and you’re going to be so much better than they expect you to be. And when you get out of this town, you _are_ going to be something amazing."

She reminds Stiles so much of his mother in that moment that he’s shocked beyond words. He can still hear her voice in her head, telling him to get out of this damn town and do everything he’s always wanted, follow his dreams and explore because the world is so much bigger than Beacon Hills. Beacon Hills has gotten smaller as Stiles has grown. It was never magical compared to the world his mother described, but now its nothing but a grey slate, but it’s _Stiles’_ grey slate. The town is a mess, it’s a blackhole but it’s where Stiles has been raised, and as he’s gotten older and peoples opinions of him have gotten darker and louder, he’s stop imaging ever leaving. He hadn’t forgotten his mother’s promise, he couldn’t if he tried, but he does avoid thinking about it, because it shows he’s let her down before he even started.

"I can’t promise that," he eventually replies. "What people think. . . what they say. . . they’re not _wrong_ about me, Laura."

"Yes they are," Laura replies, eyes burning with fire. "You have to understand, Stiles, they’ve got you all wrong. You’re meant to be something, and you’re going to be something, you just need to get out. You need to get out of this town, out of the drugs and the fighting and away from your father. You need to go somewhere where people see the fire in you—" she points at his sketchbook, "— the _talent_. You need to go somewhere where people are going to recognise that you’re an artist, a funny, caring, smart kid who can do more than throw punches and sell weed."

Stiles blinks. He. . . was _not_ expecting that at all.

"If people don’t give a shit here, why would they give a shit anywhere else?"

Laura seems almost slapped, stunned into silence by his question.

"Because not everywhere is full of people like here," she replies slowly. Each of her words hit Stiles like bullets to the chest. "I know I’ve never told you this before, Stiles, but I’m starting to realise that not enough people tell you what they should be telling you: and that’s that you’re not a bad kid, you’ve just been brought up in a bad place."

"I don’t. . . I don’t know what to say," Stiles whispers thickly, voice hoarse with emotion.

Laura smiles at him. "Don’t say anything, just stop listening to what those assholes tell you, because it’s not true."

"Okay," Stiles replies, because really, what else can he say?

 

Later that night, Stiles tells Derek he’s sick of staying in. Derek had come from school and Stiles had overheard him speaking to Laura about how the teachers were starting to suspect Stiles' whereabouts. Stiles had used that to his advanced and striked while the iron was hot and confronted Derek about leaving the house while the story about the teachers was fresh in his mind.

Derek seems reluctant, but he agrees to take Stiles to _Buddies_ late in the evening for milkshakes. They do get milkshakes, and a burger and fries. Carol is behind the bar, but other than that the restaurant is empty. Derek is grateful for that, and after a quick glance at Stiles, the younger teen promises that his father has no idea of Stiles' connection to _Buddies_ and Carol would most likely be the last person in town he'd ask about Stiles' whereabouts - if he was even asking.

Derek doesn't want to admit it, but he enjoys being out with Stiles again. Being back in _Buddies_ reminds him of the time, which feels like years ago now, when they came together from the youth club and ended the night sitting on the bonnet of Derek's car. He wishes they could go back to that night, when Derek was mostly oblivious to how Stiles was treated, where he didn't think with every passing moment about how the bruises are fading and so are the evidence, or worry that the Sheriff could walk through the door any second and drag Stiles away by his hair. And no one, maybe not even Carol, would bat an eyelash.

Stiles demolishes his fries and some of his burger, eventually leaving the food and slurping his milkshake obscenely through his straw.

He groans, "Damn. Nothing beats banana milkshake."

Derek's face twists in a grimace. "I can't believe you can drink that stuff."

Stiles' eyes widen comically. "You don't like banana milkshake?"

"It's disgusting," Derek cringes. "Makes me feel sick to my stomach."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Alright, what's your flavour of choice?"

Derek nods to his own cup, "Strawberry."

Stiles rolls his eyes again and sits back.

"What?"

"Strawberry is for girls."

This time, Derek rolls his eyes. "You sound like Scott."

"Actually, Scott’s favourite flavour is strawberry, so he’s a girl too."

Derek rolls his eyes again and drinks his own milkshake exaggeratedly.

"Thank you, by the way," Stiles admits a few minutes later, chewing on the end of his straw almost shyly. "For bringing me here, I mean. It. . . it’s nice to finally get out."

"No problem," Derek nods. "How are your ribs?"

Stiles shrugs lightly. "Been worse, right?"

Derek doesn’t reply to that - he doesn’t think he can without bringing up the touchy subject of how Stiles’ ribs shouldn’t have been hurting in the first place. Instead, Derek asks, "Have you spoken to Scott?"

Stiles nods. "Cora must have given him your house telephone number because he’s phoned everyday."

Derek wordlessly nods in reply. Scott had confronted Derek two days after Stiles was brought back to Derek’s house, asking where Stiles was and Derek was suddenly overcome with so much anger that Scott must have known about the Sheriff’s years of abuse that he had actually clocked Scott around the face so hard the teenager went down like a bag of bricks. He’d split Scott’s lip and bruised his knuckles, and eventually managed to growl out the anger he was feeling inside that Scott has done _nothing_ to help his 'best friend'. Scott had managed to choke out that he genially had no idea what Derek was on about, and that was when Derek realised Scott really was the most oblivious, most unobservant and _stupid_ person to ever walk the streets of Beacon Hills. Scott really had no clue what had been happening to Stiles all these years, and while Derek felt like he now had an oath to protect Stiles as the towns peoples refuse to, he knew he had no right to stop Scott from contacting Stiles - despite how much he _really_ disapproved of their friendship now. He told Scott to find Cora and stay the fuck away from him, so he supposes Scott did exactly that.

"Does Scott know about your dad?" Derek asks.

Stiles looks up from where he’d been picking out a chip from Derek’s plate.

"No," he replies simply - for once not making Derek define what he’s talking about when he mentions his father, for once not acting like _he_ has no clue what his father is doing. "He has no idea."

"You’ve never told him?"

Stiles frowns. "Why would I tell him?"

"Why hasn’t he noticed?"

"I don’t know," Stiles shrugs one shoulder, looking down and nudging his burger. "He’s Scott."

"That’s not an excuse," Derek snaps. "Why hasn’t he noticed his best friend is abused?"

"Shut up!" Stiles hisses, looking around at the still empty restaurant. His eyes linger on the bar, where Carol has disappeared from. He looks back at Derek, his eyes blazing. "Leave Scott out of this."

"Why should I?" Derek hisses back. "He’s supposed to be your damn best friend, Stiles, and he couldn’t even question why you’ve been covered in bruises since you were 10? He couldn’t even _notice._ "

"He has noticed! Of course he’s noticed, but I told him it was something else, and you want to know why? Because I don’t want my best friend to know I’m such a huge piece of shit that even my dad wants to beat my ass. That I’m so fucking worthless not even a parent can love me."

"You’re not worthless," Derek whispers, shocked beyond belief. "You. . . why can’t you see what everyone else see’s, Stiles?"

"I do, Derek. I know exactly they see."

"I mean the people who matter. What Laura see’s, Cora see’s, Isaac and Erica and Boyd. . . and. . . and me. Why can’t you see what _I_ see?"

"And what do you see?"

"That you’re a kid who deserves so much better than the sack of shit piece of a father you’ve been given."

"You don’t know him," Stiles whispers. "You don’t know what he’s been through."

"Stop trying to justify him!"

"His wife died!"

"She was your _mother!_ She was your flesh and blood and I don’t see you becoming an abusive alcoholic!"

"No, I’m just a drug-addict delinquent."

"You’re a child. You’re allowed to make mistakes, to screw up sometimes. Your father is a grown damn man, and he knows beating his kid is wrong."

Stiles stares at him for a long moment. His chest is rising and falling quickly, the argument making him breathless - it’s done the same to Derek. They keep having this same fight over and over, in one way or another, because Derek just can’t ignore what everyone else seems to be able to.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles eventually asks. "Why do you keep pushing?"

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but closes it before the words can come out.

Why does he keep going on? Why can’t he just let this go? Why does he keep pushing and pushing and pushing?

"Because I care," he finally answers. "Because I give a shit about you, Stiles, and the more I’ve got to know you, the more I’ve realised that you deserve to have someone who cares."

Stiles’ eyes stare at Derek. His gaze flicks to different parts of his face, analysing, looking for the lie or the joke or the mistrust.

It’s a long time before he reacts, and when he does, he stands up suddenly and gets out of the booth.

"Come on," he says, already walking towards the door. He looks back at Derek, opening the door. "I said come on."

Derek gets up, following Stiles out and to his car.

"What are you doing?" He asks when Stiles goes to the drivers side.

"I’m driving," Stiles replies, already opening the door. "Get in."

"No, no no no," Derek catches up with him in a few steps and holds the door open, grabbing his arm to stop him climbing inside. "You have broken ribs, you’re not allowed to drive."

"It’s two in the morning, Derek. The roads are going to be empty, it will be _fine_ ," Stiles replies. "Now, get the fuck in the car."

Derek is reluctant when he lets go of Stiles’ arm and lets him close the door after he climbs stiffly in. He rounds the car, getting in the other side all the while the sensible voice in his head is screaming at him for being so stupid.

Stiles drives like he drove Derek's car with normal ribs: like a reckless teenager that takes corners too fast and revs the engine, but he still feels as safe as a fiddle.

Stiles drives them out to the Preserve, but instead of going towards the house, he continues in the interstate a little bit longer until he turns in on a dirt track. He speeds the car up the hill, the trees passing in eerie black shadows.

"This hill is so much easier when you don't have to walk it," Stiles says, and Derek frowns even harder, more confused.

"Stiles--?"

"Just wait. We're almost there."

"We shouldn't be out for long, in case your dad--"

"He won't be up here," Stiles replies instantly. "No one will be."

Derek tries not to think about how ominous that sounds and instead tries to wonder how Stiles manages to apparently walk this hill they're driving up - it seems to go on forever.

Finally, they reach the top. Stiles slows the car to a park, and slumps back in the seat. Neither of them say anything for a moment, and Derek is a second away from asking what the hell Stiles is doing when the younger teen shuts off the car and says, "Come on."

"We're getting out?"

Stiles is already halfway out the car. "Of course we are. You think I brought you here to look at your dashboard?"

Derek climbs out, and instantly he is assaulted by wind. He shivers, grabbing his jacket from the backseat. Stiles is already in layers and his traditional jacket, and considering the teen is constantly cold Derek isn't surprised he came prepared for chilled weather. Without the headlights, it's dark. The moon provides no light for them to see, and Derek has to wait for his eyes to adjust.

Stiles grabs Derek by the hand, surprising him so much he doesn't resist when Stiles pulls him closer to the hill edge. It's a strange hill top, so small and so sharp. There's a patch of grass and apart from that, it's all slopes downwards.

Derek is about to protest again, this time that the cold weather is probably the worst thing for Stiles' ribs and they should get back in the car and go home, but he's silenced when he finally sees.

From the hill top, Derek can see the entirety of Beacon Hills valley. He can see the slopes of the mountains behind, the shadows of the forestry surrounding almost every side. He can see the interstate road going in and coming out the other side, like a strip of black paint through the town. He can see the communities of houses, the high street and the school. And below, almost completely hidden in the wood, he can see the glow of his house, the lights like small flecks of yellow in a sea of black.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

Stiles laughs once. "Yeah, holy shit."

"How did you find this?"

"Used to explore as a kid, did a lot more after my mom died. Anything to not be at home, y'know," Stiles clears his throat. "And one day I found this place, and every since it's been sort of a. . . safe place for me. I can see everything, I can see anything that's coming and. . . it's nice."

"Safe."

"Yeah," Stiles says weakly, "Safe."

Derek looks across at him. The moon has come out from behind the clouds, and while it's a weak light, it's enough to illuminate his features, casting shadows from his cheekbones and his jaw. It's in that moment, that Derek finally feels like his breath has been punched out of his chest, that his stomach is in knots and ties.

"You're safe with me, Stiles," he says, because it just feels so damn _right_ to finally tell Stiles that.

Stiles looks to him, eyes wide and mouth in a small 'o'.

"Do you really mean that?"

Derek nods. "I really do."

"And do you mean everything else? All the other things you said, at the restaurant and before?"

"Yes."

"That you care?"

"Yes."

"That you don't think I'm a bad person?"

"No."

"That I don't deserve what my dad does?"

"No, no of course not," Derek turns to him, his body thrumming with need to make Stiles _understand_. "You're a person, Stiles, not your fathers punching bag. You don't deserve anything less than the next normal teenager, you deserve more because your smart, and funny and talented and _caring_."

Stiles looks at him again like he did in Buddies, looking for the spec of a lie on his face. Derek knows he won't find it, because for the first time in years Derek isn't lying in anyway when he admits how much this means to him, how much _Stiles_ means to in.

Derek doesn't know who leans in first, but suddenly his lips are on Stiles' and his whole body feels like it's throbbing with exctasy. His chest feels like an army is marching through it, his heart beating like a beast in a cage. His lungs feel tight, his head spinning despite his eyes being closed.

Stiles runs his tongue along the top of Derek's mouth and it takes all of his strength to stop his legs from buckling. His stomach is in flips, every nerve screaming like it's been ignited.

Stiles is the first to pull away, panting and huffing.

"Fuck," he wheezes, hand going to his chest. "Don't hold your breath with broken ribs."

"Shit," Derek curses, grabbing him by the arms and easily lowering him to the floor. "Are you. . . are you okay?"

Stiles holds a thumb up as he drags shallow breaths in. He has his knees folded up, his shoulders shaking under Derek's hand as he rasps and resists coughing. He eventually catches the breath, his cheeks glowing red. 

"Sorry," he says, "that was not the most attractive thing to do after making out with someone."

"Don't worry about it," Derek replies instantly, and he only realises then that he's rubbing his hand up and down Stiles' back, feeling the knobs of his spine vaguely through his layers. He doesn't take his hand away. "Are you okay?"

"Fucking peachy," Stiles replies, winking at him. "God, that _sucked_."

"What did?" Derek asks - did he mean the kiss? Derek's not one for feeling self conscious. He never has, and he certainly hasn't felt self conscious at his own make out skills, but there's something about Stiles, something cool and intimidating about him that makes Derek not want to disappoint. Ever since Stiles told him he wanted to forget the last kiss, Derek has tried. But now, all the feeling has come rushing back and he's worried it'll slip through his fingers again.

"Do you regret it this time?"

Stiles looks at him. His eyes are wide and glowing, like illuminated saucers on his slender, thin face.

"No," he whispers, voice soft and tender, barely there. "I don't regret it. And. . . I didn't regret it the first time either."

Derek frowns, "But. . . you said--"

"I was scared. I didn't. . . you pulled away and I was so sure you didn't want it, didn't want _me_ that it was just easier to push you away."

"Stiles. . . I pulled away because I was shocked. I admit it, I had no idea I felt that way-- _feel_ this way, but it was wanted. I _wanted_ to kiss you."

"Why?"

Derek is starting to see a pattern in Stiles that he blames entirely on Stiles' fathers idea of a childhood upbringing - Stiles needs assurance on everything, needs a reason for everyone as to why they give even the tiniest of thought about him.

"Because I care about you, and I really, really like you."

Stiles bites his bottom lip and smiles slightly. "Really, really?"

"Really, really."

 

After another week and a half, Stiles finally says that he needs to go home.

They’re reluctant. Cora even threatens to tie him to the dining room chair to stop him, but Stiles silences them all. It takes a lot more convincing to get Laura and Cora to let him go as Peter and Derek’s turmoil is more silent than violent than the girls. Derek glances at Peter a many times before Stiles finally manages to win the Hale guardian over and Peter cracks, telling Derek he has to drive Stiles home later that night. Derek storms into the garden as soon as Peter says his decision is final and it's not long before he hears the back door open again behind him.

"Don't be mad at Peter."

Derek grits his teeth so hard they'd grinding together. "He's letting you go back."

"You know I have to."

"No," Derek spins around. "No you don't 'have' to. You have a fucking choice, Stiles."

"It's not a choice to stay locked up in this damn house for the rest of my life. I need to go back to living."

"You weren't living in that house, you were surviving."

"It's more than a lot of people," Stiles argues weakly. "Don't make this difficult, Der. Please, just. . ."

Derek sighs, shoulders slumping. He hangs his head and looks at his feet. "I'm sorry," he apologises, looking at Stiles. "You're right. This is going to be hard enough, I need to stop acting like a child not getting their own way."

Stiles shakes his head vigorously. "No, you're not acting like a child. I appreciate the concern, believe me. I just. . . I can't live here like this, Der. It's not fair on anyone."

Derek wants to argue. He wants to tell Stiles he's insane for even considering going home, but he also gets it. It's not life being stuck inside a house, let alone one that's not yours.

He pulls Stiles into him and hugs him as hard as he can without hurting his ribs.

That night, Derek drives Stiles home after dinner. He's scared the whole way, his heart beating a drum in his stomach and his hands sweaty on the wheel.

Stiles is silent the entire ride. He sits with his hands in the centre pocket of the ragged, scruffy BHHS hoodie Laura lent him from when she attended. He looks out the window, gaze distant.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks, which he knows is a stupid question, because who would be okay sitting in a car on their way back to the home of their abusive parent?

Stiles nods wordlessly, and Derek reaches over to squeeze his shoulder.

When they pull up outside the Stilinski house, neither of them say anything. Stiles clearly doesn’t want to talk, and Derek has no idea what to say. He looks between Stiles and the house, and the younger teen’s eyes never leave the closed front door.

"Well," Stiles sighs, "better get this over with."

Derek’s eyes widen slightly as Stiles climbs out, because he can’t just let Stiles _walk away_. Stiles is already out of the car when the front door opens, and Derek is out in a flash as John comes to step on the front porch decking. Surely he’s not going to beat Stiles in public?

Stiles appears more than surprise and actually halts in his steps, but he recovers faster than Derek and his posture is wiped clean as he makes his way up the path. He looks over his shoulder once, his eyes soft and scared and sad. He smiles, a small quirk of the corner of his lips. He looks so small in that moment, so alone that Derek can barely contain the urge to chase after him, scoop him up and drive him away from here in a wrapped blanket.

Stiles takes the porch steps two at a time and is on the decking in seconds. Derek’s heart is going a mile and minute in his chest as John’s eyes follow Stiles, and when Stiles is almost at his side, they snap towards Derek and never faulter. Stiles watches his father, eventually stepping up so he’s almost at the door. He spares another glance at Derek, and he nods, as if silently saying _it’s okay, you can go now_.

But Derek can’t go. He can’t leave Stiles here.

His feet are rooted to the floor, his hands curled into fight fists. He can feel the anger, the despair and the desperation inside him ticking like a time bomb.

He can’t stop the explosion.

John and Stiles turn around, about to go into the house when Derek’s mouth opens and the words come out.

"Hey, John!" He shouts, and the older man turns around, barely having taken a step towards the door. His face is hard as stone, eyes glaring. He’s dressed in his Sheriff uniform, looking nothing like a parent who’s child has been missing from their daily life for almost three weeks. It’s only fuel to Derek’s raging fire. "Think you can manage a day not beating him half to death?"

John’s lip curls back in a snarl just as Stiles’ eyes widen.

"What did you just say to me?" John asks, turning so he’s facing Derek. He takes a step and squares up, seeming so much larger.

But Derek isn’t scared. Stiles might be, deep down, so Derek has to be fearless for him.

"I said, think you can manage a day without being an abusive sack of shit?"

Stiles’ face bleeds of colour until it’s so white it matches the poor paint job on the decking wood. John’s face is bright red, a burning ruby against his khaki uniform.

And Derek?

Derek’s just a fucking idiot.

It all happens within a few moments.

John is flying down the decking stairs so fast it takes Derek a fat second to realise what the hell is happening. John looks like a rabid animal, feral and snarling. He comes towards Derek, and almost on instinct, when those meaty fists reach towards him, Derek swings and suddenly, John is on the floor and his knuckles are throbbing.

Derek is vaguely aware of Stiles screaming his name. He punched John clean off his feet, and the Sheriff went down like a sprawling sack of potatoes on the grassy lawn. Derek doesn’t know where the blood is coming from, but it covers the Sheriff’s face like a red splatter and the front of his uniform.

Derek must retreat into himself with shock of what he’s done, because everything sounds so far away, echoing like a tunnel. He can’t take his eyes off John, the _Sheriff_ , who’s on his back on the grass of his own front garden with blood gushing down his uniform because _Derek_ hit him.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, a tug on his arm and he finally breaks his eyes away from the Sheriff and looks down at Stiles. Sound comes rushing back as if he’s broken the water surface.

"We need to leave," Stiles is saying, pulling Derek with everything he has. "Please, Derek, we have to go! Come on! Now! Run, for fuck sake!"

Derek finally lets himself be pulled back to the car. He climbs in, Stiles doing the same. He has the engine roaring and he’s peeling away from the curb and down the street before John is even on his feet.

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops?


End file.
